Moth For The Star
by Kesjcv
Summary: Post-513, A B/J season 6 as we all wanted it! Sick!Brian, Toppy!Justin, Success, New York, Heartbreak and Reunions.
1. Chapter 1

**MOTH FOR THE STAR**

**601 - Tenants of Earth (Chapter 1)**

* April 2005 *

_You would not easily guess_

_All the modes of distress_

_Which torture the tenants of earth;_

_And the various evils,_

_Which like so many devils,_

_Attend the poor souls from their birth._

_- Shelley_

New York

JUSTIN:

The air in New York hit me like a slap across the face. Humid and clogged with fumes, it burned my throat and made my head spin as I stepped across the road from the airport dragging my bulky black suitcase behind me. That suitcase held my entire life, packed up and shoved together for the hasty move to Manhattan. _Almost_ my entire life. I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders up to my ears as I hurriedly pushed thoughts of Brian out of my mind. That last night together, so tender and desperate and full of...love.

A shout jolted me out of my reverie:

"Justin Taylor? Is that you?"

It was Daphne's friend: a voluptuous lady with an elfin face full of smiles that were not unlike Daphne's. She hurried towards me, her multicoloured coat catching in the spring breeze, and her blonde hair all over the place. I couldn't help but grin. She looked around my age, although her weathered red cheeks and sparkling eye makeup made it hard to tell.

"You fit the description Daphne gave me" She gushed, eyeing me over keenly "I'm Adele Hills and I just know you are going to LOVE it here!"

I laughed softly and shook her bangled, be-ringed, outstretched hand. It was a short walk to the taxi stand and before I knew it apartment blocks were sliding past us in a glimmer of mirrored silver.

The apartment Adele brought me to was owned, she told me, by an uncle of hers and was just above her own. I thanked her cordially and invited her to come in when she hesitated by the door after giving me the keys. As she bustled about happily, switching on electrics and gas, I walked slowly through the open plan flat, my hands in my sweater pockets. It was large, nowhere near as large as the loft, but ample for my needs I guessed. The wooden floor was polished, and the stainless steel kitchen was new and clean. The windows were large and looked out down the grandiose promenade of East 34th Street, bordered by trees and bustling with cars and taxis. I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced a smile when she came round to join me.

"So, Daphne tells me you are an artist!' She encouraged, and I turned away from the window.

"Yeah" I grinned sheepishly "Although I got suspended from Art School"

"No shit!" She exclaimed, and I returned her grin. "She didn't tell me THAT about you! Mind you, she hasn't told me a whole lot at all - maybe she didn't want to put me off letting you stay in my uncle's apartment!"

The conversation turned to trivial things and after making sure I was set up and comfortable, she left, beaming and assuring me to call if I wanted anything. _Sure_. I wanted my home. I wanted Brian. I wanted to take back the decision we had made. But there was no turning back now. I got up, putting it all down to relocation nerves, and paced to the bathroom, determined to do this on my own, and succeed.

***

Pittsburgh

MICHAEL

Brian did NOT sell Babylon. After the club was refurbished, and the last speck of bomb-dust had been cleaned out, it was reopened and business carried on as usual. At least it appeared to. Michael Novotny pushed his way through the throng of bodies on the dance floor, to find Brian leaning against the bar, his eyes fixed on some indiscernible point in the crush, and the club lights lighting his face in an ever-changing kaleidoscope of colours. Michael noticed how in one flash, the lines in Brian's face were accentuated and his skin seemed pale as sorrow. In another flash, his eyes were lit with a predatory blue and the fine jawline seemed too perfect to be real. Michael thought of comics. And then Brian had seen him, and was moving towards him with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

"Hey, Michael, what a nice surprise!" he forwarded sarcastically, "Where's the professor?"

"They are all at my house" Michael said. "There is a bit of an emergency."

Brian's brow furrowed. "Is everything all right?" he shouted above the crash and drum of the music. By way of reply Michael took him by the arm and led him out and down the steps into the fresh April night. Brian turned and faced him, his features serious and questioning, and Michael couldn't help but smile.

"Its my Mom" he announced. "She is having a crisis!"

Brian took a step back from him, tilting his head back briefly and folding his arms, an invitation to continue.

"With her hair!" Michael looked down at the pavement and up at the sky and then finally at Brian. "She wants to burn her wig!"

But Brian was already smiling, and then he started chuckling. "Really Michael" he responded "You. Are. SO. Pathetic!" Then his face became serious again and he assumed a long-suffering expression. "I should have guessed it ran in the family."

Much as he pleaded, Michael could not persuade Brian to come to help Debbie, and just got more curt laughter when he tried harder. As he walked away from the Club, he turned and watched the lithe figure in black silk shirt and jeans ascending back into the thumpa thumpa, and he supposed that perhaps Brian was not as perturbed by the recent events and Justin's departure than he had thought. Little did he know that Brian also did not sell the house, Britin. Although he did not speak of that to anyone.

***

New York

JUSTIN:

The day after my arrival I received a phone call, stipulating that one Mr. Olsen wanted to meet with me to 'discuss my potential in New York'. I politely accepted, my heart thudding in my chest and, having put the phone down, turned on my heel with my hands behind my head to look at my empty flat. A blank canvas. Hell, I knew what to do with those. Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad after all.

The meeting that afternoon came by all too quickly, and after making sure I was presentable in a grey suit and black tie, I stopped and looked closely into my reflection in the bathroom mirror. This is what I want to become. This is my chance. I know am a good artist; my hand is healed, my style is matured and I am sure I can improve to fit the expectations of the big city critics. I know I am sweet, and hot, and desirable, and I know that I can have almost any man I please here in the big apple, so why do I not feel turned on? My eyes stared back at me from the glass, blue and impassive and offering no answers.

_It had all happened so fast. You and Brian were together again, and you had accepted him and it was all a blur of joy and giddiness. You had joined like never before, rough and hard, all sweat and teeth and lips and gasps and laughter, lost in the fairytale, the knowledge of your bond a scolding secret between you. And his acknowledgment had been everything for you in those few happy days, you felt like a prince, his prince, and nothing else mattered. But it had mattered, and it was over as quickly as it had begun. And then you were expressing unsaid good-byes and touching his body, perhaps for the last time, trying to commit every inch to memory. The pain and love in his eyes then, as his guard slipped, took your breath away, and all you could do was kiss him, and hold him, and pull him inside you, pretending it would never end. And yet it was __**you**__ who left, __**you**__ who insisted that neither of you change. _

Mr. Olsen spotted me wavering unsure by the gallery doors and beckoned formally. He was a tall thin man with an upper-class paunch covered by a pristine white shirt and an expensive suit. I approached unhurriedly, my portfolio in my hand, until we met in the middle of the floor and shook hands. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

"So, you are Mr. Taylor' he observed in a cultured Bostonian accent, and I nodded in confirmation. "It was very good of you to meet with me on such short notice Mr. Olsen..."

"Henry, please! On the contrary, I am highly intrigued by what I have heard of you from Simon Caswell. He seemed pretty impressed by your talent, not to mention admiring of your determination in the face of diversity. The fact you have succeeded despite your...difficult past."

He was talking of the bashing, of course. I swallowed a caustic response and turned my head instead to look at some of the massive paintings that adorned the walls of the deserted room. He seemed to read my thoughts and began telling me of their creators, some sponsored by this, his gallery, others with private mentors. I tried not to judge, but could not help but find some of them crude, meaningless and heavy. Henry Olsen picked this up from my expression with a hearty laugh and agreed.

"I am hoping that you are the young blood this city needs to pick it up out of the gutter, Justin! Now, are you going to let me look at your work, or is this a waste of my time?"

***

Pittsburgh

CARL:

Sgt. Carl Horvath arrived home to find his house crowded and filled with activity. From what he could make out; Ted, Blake, Emmett, Michael, Hunter, Ben and a couple of unknown queens were all crammed into the space he ventured to call a living-room. Cups of tea were carried and sloshed, pillows were plumped up and voices all talked at once, whilst in the midst, Debbie sat resplendent on the couch, talking rapidly, gesturing and seemingly protesting and trying to get up, each time pushed back down by numerous hands.

Taking a deep breath, Carl strode into the room, and putting on his most authoritative voice, enquired: "Debbie? What in God's name is going on here?"

Emmett disentangled himself to come over to the bewildered man. "It seems" he nodded at Debbie "that Deb wants to burn all her wigs - I just got the gist from snippets here and there, so my opinion is not as solid as Zach O'Toole, but I think our main goal is to calm her down enough to get a sensible explanation out of her..."

He was interrupted by a foghorn shout: "I'm fine, goddamnit! Can't you just leave me the fuck alone and let me do what I want to do!" Emmett raised his eyebrows and minced off to boil some more water. Carl sighed and clucked before squashing himself down onto the sofa with Debbie. He ushered the others away and held her hand, stopping her from jumping up immediately, and when he looked at her questioningly it all came out.

"I was at the supermarket today and I found myself looking for pasta because Justin so liked pasta..." she banged her fist down on the sofa "and one of these goddamn queens came up to me and told me that I looked like mutton dressed as lamb! ...And then I thought of Sunshine and how he never criticised me, and I realised what's the point of wearing the wigs anymore...It doesn't make me any more interesting, its not going to change who I am, its not going to bring him back, it just makes me look like a plumped up tart wearing a fucking bird's nest!"

Carl leant back against the sofa and looked round at the staring faces surrounding them. Then he looked at Deb. The two unidentified dates had found a way to surreptitiously sneak an exit and were no longer there. Ben and Blake and Ted exchanged glances. Michael had stopped protesting. Then Emmett broke the silence.

"Well!" he exclaimed cheerily. "Lets 'get this show in the road' as they say, and give your birds nests a send-off they will never forget!"

And with that he ordered Michael into the garden to collect firewood, and whilst the others quietly took their leave, he set to gathering the ingredients for a true cult funeral. Carl watched his woman during this; she sat still, unheeding, lost in her own thoughts, her hands playing with the garish leopard print rug.

Eventually, she sighed. "After all that has happened: Justin's bashing, Brian's cancer, bless him, the bomb, Michael's injury... I think its time I grew up." She looked at him with a resolute expression. "I'm always going on at the boys about becoming men, yet I still go around dressed like I was as a goddamn teenager" A comfortable silence followed, in which Carl smiled and Debbie sighed. "You know, I haven't had my own hair in 30 years" she remarked. Carl chuckled "Well, I'm sure looking forward to seeing it."

***

New York

JUSTIN

I lay in the semi-darkness, knowing that I had a couple of hours before my alarm clock went off, drilling the ominous prospect of my first meeting with the board of Mr Olsen's gallery. I had woken after dreaming of Pittsburgh, and Brian. His smouldering eyes seemed to pierce my soul and in my dream I wanted to touch him, caress his soft familiar skin but try as I might I could not reach him; mists of frustration clouding my mind. I woke with my heart aching. So I lay in my bed, and let my thoughts wander back over 5 years.

_The first time he fucked me, I had almost choked with my nervousness. Of course I had been turned on, the sight of him alone was enough to do that. And I had known, somehow, from the moment I first saw him underneath that fated street lamp, had got my first glimpse of the pores in his skin, the dark flutter of his lashes, the hard curve of his neck, that he was the one. But that did not prevent my fear: I felt totally lost and yet exited at the same time. Years later when Brian remarked that he could have been a murderer and strangled me, I saw the sense in his words. But sometimes something is just too right to doubt. Brian had been so calm when he took my innocence, and I had needed him to be. Working through my tenseness, he had calmed me with short passionate kisses that spoke to me 'Its all right.' 'Let me lead' 'Want to come along for the ride?'. Brian Kinney had always communicated through his actions, and at that moment, it was the only way I could hear it. _

I smiled as I remembererd how I slipped into his life almost unawares, how I became a 2-night-stand, and then a 3-night-stand, and then, after he came to fetch me from New York, I somehow was no longer a trick.

_When I had opened the hotel-room door to see him leaning against the door frame, a sardonic expression on his face, and the ghost of a smile behind the pissed-off look he gave me, my heart had jumped a little. Of course I knew I had been passing borrowed time. No-one runs away from home and steals a credit card without any ramifications, and to be honest, I had wanted, nay, LONGED for him to come after me, to give me that little hint that he cared. And so I had helplessly invited him in, and when he swept past me, tersely commenting on how he had paid for everything, I followed him, knowing my fantasy escape was over, but secretly rejoicing in his presence. As I stood opposite him and watched him looking coldly around, I noticed at his rumpled clothes and smelt him. Sweat, and stale car fumes and old cigarettes. As I realised he probably slept in the car, my heart did a little skip and I felt myself harden; moving towards him and taking off his shirt. I loved the way he tolerated me, showed me that he was not really angry, sighed into the hot hotel air. And when he finally claimed me, it was with a passion I had not previously seen in him. Being deprived of sex for the duration of the trip made him desperate, boiling in his need and crushing me. Hot and hard and frantic was what I welcomed, because it was how I felt. It was how we both felt._

***

Pittsburgh

Lindsey smiled as she saw Brian's corvette pulling up outside the entrance to the park. She had left Mel looking after Gus and JR in their new home in Canada to fly into Pittsburgh for a few days, with the excuse of seeing people and meeting a prospective art student. But the truth was, she missed it. She missed having her friends around the corner, she missed seeing Brian with his son, she missed Justin's dazzling smile and Debbie's biting rationality. Biting her lip, she watched as Brian ducked out of the car, dressed smartly in black jeans and a cream V-neck sweater underneath a casual black jacket. She could not help but notice how fit and handsome he looked as he strode towards her with a smile.

"Where's Gus?" he demanded, pulling her in for a hug and kissing her on the mouth.

Lindsey looked down "Actually, I didn't bring him" She stepped back from her friend and smoothed the material over his hard shoulders.

"What? you come all this way and you don't even plan to let me see my kid?"

"Actually, I wanted to see how you were, to talk" Lindsey peered at him, their eyes on almost the same level.

They began to walk through the park, green leaves on the trees heralding the coming spring. Brian was silent beside her and Lindsey found herself twisting her hands. "I encouraged him to go to New York, Brian" she ventured "I knew that if he didn't make the effort now, he never will. And you know how talented he is, it is just not fair...'

"I know." A curt reply. Lindsey sneaked a glance at the man beside her and found his eyes on the canopy of branches above them, hands in his coat pockets. He sighed, and suddenly she felt an outpouring of gratitude and love for him.

Ever since they were kids, she had always seen how, behind the nonchalant and heartless front, he had helped those he cared for. And she had seen how much he had done for Justin, and she knew what the young man meant to Brian. Had seen the way Justin had broken down the barriers of Brian's insecurity, had felt the tangible love they had shared, had seen the way that Brian sacrificed everything to let Justin do what he needed to do. She remembered then, that over and over, Brian had given up his own happiness for the happiness of others, and she felt a tightening in her chest. When he gave up his parental rights to Mel so they could stay together, when he outed Michael at the cost of his friendship, so Michael could move on, when he let Justin walk out with Ethan to experience new things, when he pretended he wasn't going on the liberty ride, so Justin to go to Hollywood. And now he had let Justin go, again, without a word of protest, because he wanted what was best for him. Lindsey felt herself tearing up as she saw how alone Brian felt, and she reached out and took his cold hand out of his pocket.

"Thank you" she whispered.

Brian just looked at her with a woeful smile as they walked and then, gripping her hand tighter, he exhaled and stood straighter, squaring his shoulders. And she knew that was all there was to say in that conversation.

***

End of chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

**602 - Die while they glow (Chapter 2)**

*3 months later* August 2005

_The desire of the moth for the star,_

_Of the night for the morrow,_

_The devotion to something afar_

_From the sphere of our sorrow._

_- Shelley_

Pittsburgh

_Michael knew. He knew from the moment he saw Justin heading toward Brian in the hot, sweaty, crowded mania of Babylon, all those years ago. He watched as the blonde teenager began dancing shamelessly a little distance from Brian, who had been in the process of picking up two unbelievably hot studs. And yet this boy, whose face was simply sweet, who's frame was slight and undeveloped, who's sex appeal was nothing special...Mikey saw immediately that Brian was watching him, and when the two studs saw him too and moved over to him, Mikey knew that Brian had met his match. He didn't quite know HOW he knew this; it was more a feeling, as he watched Justin lean his head back against the guy feeling him up behind. Amidst the swirling lights and pounding music, Mikey saw Brian drawn in, despite his previous callousness and disdain for the young man, seductively slipping his arms around his neck, brushing away the other two men and placing himself directly in front of Justin. Mikey knew then that Brian was intrigued, knew that, despite his best intentions, he was falling for this twink, this unremarkable, unexceptional, optimistic youth and there was nothing that Mikey could do._

***

New York

JUSTIN:

I wiped a few dead flies off the sticky paint of my windowsill. Heat crawled into my 3rd floor apartment like rolling animated tar, smothering everything with a blurry uncertain fatigue. My eyes felt heavy and my lungs prickled as I sat in front of my easel, staring at my latest piece of artwork. I had been accepted by Mr. Henry Olsen's 'Manhattan Emerging Art Gallery' and had found myself selling paintings, far more then in Pittsburgh, being recognised in the street ("You're that new artist from the M.E.A.G aren't you!") and being called for posh dinners with 'arty' colleges who gestured and debated and bludgeoned the old classical painters with their criticism.

It was to one of these 'parties' that I went, that hot August evening, stiff and apprehensive in a new black suit, with a sense of satisfaction that I had received yet another complimentary review in the local art magazine. _'Justin Taylor'_ it had read, _'a young gay artist recently emerged in New York, has stunned critics and collectors alike with the intensity and originality of his work'_. As I stepped into the crowded hall, filled with the objective squares of suit backs, and the tinkle of champagne glasses and inauthentic laughter, I felt a surge of excitement. This was going far better than I had ever imagined. And as if to confirm my observation, I felt a hand on my arm and turned to find a dashing young man gazing defiantly at me. He nodded his head towards the toilets and I grinned, following him wordlessly through the crowds.

Moments later we were panting in the cool plastic cubicle. He was eager, and tight, and I felt a rush of anticipation flow through me. I saw how hot he found me, saw how he had desired me, and as I came, grunting over his back, I felt unconquerable. New York was at my feet. But afterwards, I did not give him my number when he asked. The fuck was enjoyable, but it really did feel empty, as all the tricks had done since I moved away from Pittsburgh, and Brian. One cannot describe how different sex is when you love someone; it is not the quick slick, gasp, release of a nameless union, it is something so much more. The tenderness and connection one feels make it so much hotter. The familiarity, knowing every inch, every turn-on, shifts it to another level entirely. I closed my eyes, the young man still pulling on his shirt behind me, as I thought of how charged sex with Brian had been.

_I did not know when it had started to change, the transition had been so gradual, but if I had to pick a moment where I knew it was different, it would be when Brian had made love to me for the first time after the bashing. I had seen it in the days before, in how he took me in, listened to me, did everything in his power to help me remember. I had seen it in the way he was patient with me when I was too tense, too emotionally unstable still to let him inside. But I truly felt it when, after those memories had come crashing back into my head, he had sat beside me and showed me he cared. I had been surprised to find him wearing the scarf, crusted blood staining it's silky folds, and looked at him. He did not have words to answer me with, but just glanced away, letting me realise how deeply the bashing, and I, had affected him. _

_His kisses that night were feather-soft, peppering my neck and shoulder, reassuring me in unspoken words: 'It's okay' 'I'm here' 'Relax'. And he was so patient, so slow. I don't even know if he came or not. Just holding me and moving, oh so gently, inside of me, bringing back those forgotten sensations, making me feel so good and allowing me to lose myself in the swirl of desire that fled back into my limbs. That was the first night it was no longer just fucking._

***

Pittsburgh

Debbie had made sure that Mel and Linds came back to Pittsburgh for Gus's birthday. She was in her element when they arrived, putting them up in the spare bedroom and crooning over how much JR had grown. Michael noticed that she cracked her gum less when they were around, and adopted her well-practiced motherly stance over the children, and hugged Mel and Linds every couple of hours. She also snatched the opportunity to arrange Gus's 5th birthday party, and spent hours hanging paper chains and cooking before the day arrived. Michael smiled to himself, it was good to see her bustling around with new-found motivation, something she had been lacking in since their and Justin's departures.

After commending Debbie's new hairstyle, a natural silver bob which suited her immensely, Melanie sidled up to Michael and handed him JR with a groan. They chatted about trivial things for a while and then Mel looked at where Brian was sitting talking to Gus and showing him how to hold a bow and arrow. "How is he?" she asked, and Michael shrugged "Well...the same, really", he concluded. But the moment he said it, he realised it was untrue. Things were NOT the same. Had not been the same since Justin left. Brian talked, joked, worked, and Michael assumed he fucked, but there was a new reserve, a new poise and a less stand-offish attitude. He watched as Brian picked up Gus and held him up above his head before pointing him at the food table, tongue in cheek, and letting him run off. Of course, Brian still had a 'fuck 'em all' attitude. Michael grinned; that had been demonstrated the other night when he and Brian had run into none other than Craig Taylor on Liberty avenue. Brian was about to stride past him when Mr Taylor had stepped in front of them.

"Don't think I'm here to talk, because I'm not" He said gruffly, and Brian had waited for him to continue, slowly raising one eyebrow. Oh the chill of a condescending Kinney look. Craig had shifted on his feet and Michael had felt the anger radiating off him, a furious accusation matched only by Brian's withering silence.

"I know Justin has gone to New York" he said at last, meeting Brian's gaze and glaring back. "His mother and I are...not talking. I need to know where he is living."

Brian let out a short dry laugh "What? So you can go and visit him? Play happy families now that your discreditable son has finally been recognised as a success?" He met Craig's glower with an icy scrutiny "I think if your son had wanted you to go and play the sycophant, when you can't even accept his life, he would have given you his address himself."

Craig balled his fists and took step towards Brian, and just as Michael was about to step in and intercede, the older man stopped himself, facing up to Brian who raised his chin.

"People like you are sick" He hissed. "You are perverted and twisted and you corrupted my son. All you care about is yourself, what do YOU know about a father's love?"

Brian snorted before he could help himself. "Love? What kind of a father would disown his own son, and then have him arrested?" He shook his head, smiling bitterly. Then he leaned in to Craig's face, and said quietly: "Go find your goddamn son in New York if you love him so fucking much." And then he turned on his heel, hooked an arm around Michael's neck and dragged him away down the street.

***

New York

JUSTIN:

The phone calls had become less and less frequent, as I knew they would. Brian did not want to hold me back, he wanted to distance himself from me so I could have my best chance of finding my way, without feeling like I had ties back home. I knew why he eventually stopped calling. I understood his reasoning. For how can you really lose yourself in a big new city, and start a whole new branch of your life when you have an old flame clinging on to you from the past? But what he did not know was that no matter how many guys I fucked, how many fancy friends I made, how many experiences I had, he and I had been through too much together for it not to have meant anything. Brian Kinney had captured me, body and soul, and I knew in my gut that I would never love another as I loved him.

_I had seen him change from a stoic, arrogant, predatory stranger, with armour so thick no-one could penetrate it. A hardened, seemingly callous individual whose composure reached even into bed; he did not express emotion when fucking, his climaxes were near-silent and his post-coital manner was distant and solitary. Yet slowly, he opened up to me. Allowed himself to let go, and I knew with a secret swell in my chest that I was the only person who got to see this. Brian passionate, desperate, gasping and twisting his hands in my hair. Brian lying there beside me, smiling shyly into my eyes, his own dark hair mussed and sweaty, his green eyes lit by the soft light from the window. Brian vulnerable and caring, massaging my shaking hand with oil and letting me bury my head in his chest after a nightmare. _

_I will always remember the first time he let me top him. I had accepted his offer of financial help, and he was tired, and relieved, and when I looked into his eyes and started to push him over, he paused, and looked back. But I wasn't asking. I needed to prove to him and myself that we were equals, that I was not just a kid sponging money off him, that I was worthy to be his partner. The chaste kiss I gave him was gentle and teasing and self-assured and perhaps because he understood my need, perhaps because he was too tired to protest, he turned over and tucked a pillow under his arms. Feeling his unease, (I knew he hardly ever bottomed, if at all) I stroked his smooth muscled back beneath me, I kissed his arched neck, I kissed the hard bone of his shoulder blade as I penetrated him. And a whirlwind of emotions flew through my body: Gratefulness, that he had allowed me to take the lead; Uncertainty, because this was a new stage in our relationship; but most of all I felt an overwhelming love. That he had broken his own rules for me, that this connection brought us closer as equals, as partners._

I sighed and ran my fingers over the bridge of my nose. Stared at the phone. Promised myself that I would prove him wrong and return to him.

A few hours later the phone rang, and it was my Mom. She sounded flustered and when I pressed her she admitted that my father had been trying to contact her, and me. I snorted.

"Let him try. I have no intention of seeing him again" My mind flew back to when Brian had sardonically told me not to waste my time on Craig's disapproval. 'You've not had a father for nearly two weeks' he had said. It had hurt at the time, but I had realised how right he was. Now I had not had a father for over 5 years, and had no intention of welcoming him back without his full acceptance and trust. He thought homosexuals were animals, inhuman, incapable of love. I felt the familiar angry bitterness rising up in my throat.

_He did not, could not, know the warmth Brian and I had shared. How it was Brian who brought me through the hellish space I was in after the bashing. Brian who had supported me, stuck by me, loved me without words as I smarted from Craig's abandonment, as I fell for Ethan's bullshit, as I involved myself in Cody's violent schemes. And how I cared for Brian when he was sick, unflinching sat behind him as he retched into the toilet from the effects of his radiation, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. He could not even begin to imagine._

***

Pittsburgh

As Michael and Brian wove their way through the pulsing bodies of Babylon, Michael glanced at his friends face. Brian looked thoughtful, almost impassive as he shook his head at a buffed-up stud who was cruising him. It began to dawn on Michael that Brian was not tricking as much as usual, Not nearly as much. He was thinking about asking Brian about it when he discovered he knew the answer. It wasn't that Brian was 'too old', hell, he was still the hottest, most desirable man in Pittsburgh. It was, Mikey realised, because Brian missed Justin. The unlikely union of two souls, the fondness and ache of need, of wanting to protect, the love Brian had been adamant he would never feel, had crept up on him unawares until it was too late. He was in too deep. There was no turning back. Michael stared into his glass, unsure whether to be happy or sad for Brian. Mr 'I-believe-in fucking-not-love' Kinney had fallen, despite himself. Michael mused that it was probably the best type of love story that could be written, for the protagonists were not tainted by expectation or prejudice, were not forced into ardor by convention. No. Brian fought tooth and nail until the last, but he only proved himself wrong, that love IS stronger than will, that love breaches all boundaries.

***

End of Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

**603 - Mists of Time (Chapter 3)**

*4 months later* December 2005

_Thy light alone like mist o'er mountains driven,_

_Or music by the night-wind sent_

_Through strings of some still instrument,_

_Or moonlight on a midnight stream,_

_Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream._

_- Shelly_

New York

JUSTIN:

_Bold strokes of blue cut insistently through a brown background. Hinting at the form of something. Something with immense energy. With an unfathomable importance. But at the same time it is noncommittal, this shape, poised in the midst of it's swirling hues. Massive. Ambiguous. It could just as easily be a tree, or a dense enveloping mist. But I know what it is to me. It is the silhouette of a man, pensive, standing at a window. _

I moved around the huge canvass, spread out flat on a massive easel which took up most of the floor in my apartment, wiping my paint covered hands on my smeared overall. Trying to see, from this difficult angle, the impact of the image. It was a commission, for the latest exhibition at Henry's gallery and he had wanted something big, arresting and heartfelt. I sighed and glanced in the mirror on the far wall. It was true that I put a lot of myself into my art: I looked tired, pale and drained. Yet my eyes glistened with fervour and inspiration. Underneath my spattered apron I was wearing loose grey slacks, a pale shirt open at the neck and a sweater against the cold. My body, I noticed, had begun to look like that of a man, rather than the skinny teenager I used to be. My shoulders were broader and my chest more defined, although I did not work out religiously like Emmett back home.

Home. My stomach did a funny twist at the memory. It had been weeks since I had heard from my mother; Pittsburgh, with it's wide roads and glittering avenues, was beginning to feel like a distant dream: misty, incoherent, and fragmented. And yet the emotions that came with that memory were as vivid as a knife edge. I angrily gripped my messy brush tighter in my fist as I thought of Brian. Damn his fucking selflessness! Why must he ALWAYS put my needs before his? Why must he sacrifice his love, our relationship, so I could enhance myself? I wanted him to need me to stay. I wanted to be asked to stay. But I knew that was never going to happen. And I knew that what HAD happened was for the best, because I also wanted to get my career on track, and if he had asked, I never would have left. So I contented myself with picturing him, ignoring the familiar ache in my chest.

_The night of the Pride parade, my first Pride parade, where queens had sparkled like so many colourful diamonds and costumes had waltzed by with a humming energy, a joyful vivacity, a multicoloured defiance. Lights and music and drums and shouts had pounded in my head, and I had pushed down the still-fresh fear of crowds, refusing to be overwhelmed, because I wanted to show Brian that I was okay. He had looked so gorgeous that night, in a sleeveless beige top that had hugged his gentle chest muscles and accentuated the strong musculature of his arms. He had been annoyed to be landed with Gus whilst Lindsey marched with Mel, but I had taken a secret joy in watching him with the baby. The way he held him, gently and naturally, the way he smiled at him, with no trace of his usual sarcasm. That smile reserved only for Gus, and later, me. Sincere and shy and warm, with a hint of humour curling up the sensuous lips and a sparkle in his eyes. I realised later what an effort it was for him to let anyone see this side of him, how vulnerable he made himself. And when he let me see it, I fell head over heels in love with him all over again. _

_That night he had surprised me yet again. Sitting at the bar after the march, I had kissed the soft warm skin of his shoulder, letting him know that I was not restraining him, or expecting him to stay with me. After encouraging him to go and dance with a hot stud, I had slipped out into the cool night, breathing in the smell of stale popcorn and passed exhaust from the floats, deciding to make my way back to Debbie. The light hand on my shoulder had caught me off guard and when he looked into my eyes with an unfathomable expression and shyly asked my to dance, I had laughed in disbelief. Yet then he had gently referred to the fated prom dance: "I promise you won't forget this one", and I felt a welling in my chest. That, the best night of my life. The night which I had lost so abruptly for a time, lost to blood and ambulance sirens and sterile cold corridors. I had peered into his guarded green eyes, seeing for the first time a nakedness there which had nothing to do with the removal of clothes. However, Brian had left me no time to pry further, but had taken my hand and led me into the pulsating street. Out dance that night had not been complicated, or flashy, or spectacular, because it was not our bodies that danced. _

***

Pittsburgh

Michael was thoroughly bemused by Tibet. Ben had finally planned the trip and, wanting to accompany his husband in fulfilling his dream, Michael had agreed to go for a 4-month Buddhist training program. He had been very surprised. Surprised by the reservedness of the monks, surprised by the overwhelming shoulders of the mountains which seemed to tower over him wherever he was, highly surprised by the food which for the first week had created unwelcome side-effects the likes of which he had never before experienced. Paris with David had been pleasant, far more pleasant for Mikey than Tibet, but it was tame by comparison. Returning home by plane, he felt like he had been run through an emotional meat-grinder, but was not totally convinced it was a bad thing. Tibet had been... an eye opening experience. But now Mikey was sure he wanted to go back to cosy old Pittsburgh and keep his eyes firmly shut.

Lindsey and Mel brought JR and Gus and came from Canada to join Debbie, Emmett, Ted and Blake as the welcome party at the airport. Lindsey looked around at her old friends after escaping a rib-crushing hug from Debbie, and felt her eyes fill with tears. Her and Mel's 'new life' had not been as ideal as they had pictured it. Despite Canada being labelled 'gay-friendly', she had noticed the dirty looks in the street, and felt the hostility of their neighbours. And it hurt her.

But she swallowed the lump in her throat, with a reassuring rub on the back from Mel, and took Gus's gloved hand as she looked around for the person she had missed the most: Peter Pan.

"He's not here honey!" Emmett chipped in, seeing her glances.

Debbie tsk'd and rolled her eyes; "Some things never change!" she muttered, bejewelled hands on multicoloured hips.

Lindsey could not say she was surprised. As well as being the head of an successful and ever expanding company, and therefore almost certainly busy, she knew Brian would not consent to join in any conventional and cliché exhibition of a frilly reunification. She knew he would find his own way to welcome Michael back, to greet her again, quietly but unforgettably.

Just then she felt a tug on her arm, and she smiled down into the blue eyes of her son. The one thing that stopped her from losing her mind with missing Brian. The one part of Brian she could take back to Canada with her. She had been so grateful when he had consented to father her child. The idea of such a connection with him had excited her beyond her wildest dreams, and although she never admitted it to Melanie, it was not her wife she had been thinking of as she was impregnated. Lindsey was still unsure; she had not especially been turned on in particular by men, except the artist Sam, but that had been more of a release then anything. However, the one man she knew, without a doubt, that she loved, lusted after, liked beyond comprehension, was Brian. And he was the man she could not have. That time in college had whetted her appetite, and she was never quite able to satiate it.

_Hot lips on her skin. Graceful curve of his neck counteracting his powerful shoulders. Burning green eyes, deep and clear as emerald. An ambiguous yet overpowering sexuality that seemed to envelop her completely. Gasping. Clutching. Gentle and quick. Unfocused, unsure, incredible. He had been so unwavering, she had been so desperate. Young, strong arms, oh-so-long legs and slight bumps of muscles on his stomach. His hair, light brown and mussed, was branded into her memory. Her bedroom, dark, tangle of sheets and sensations. He was big, and she was scared, but his kisses had transported her to another place and they were lost, exploring, crying out, thrusting, sweating, trusting._

_And then they had gone their separate paths, and she had discovered women, because no man meant as much as Brian. Since then she had savored his friendly kisses, savored how he showed he loved her through his gestures, even though he could not help her live out the conventional fairy tale. And she loved Mel, loved the connection and understanding only two women could share, but when they had decided on a child, there could only be one father. She could live out that much of her fantasy, goddamnit. And so she had asked, cajoled, reasoned. And when he had consented and the night came when Mel held the precious cup, smiling at her, Lindsey had to turn away, shut her eyes. The thought of Brian filling her, alighting in her the flame of a child, was too much to bear and as Mel poured, she had shuddered and moaned and experienced the most powerful orgasm she had ever had. _

***

New York

JUSTIN:

My 24th birthday had been in November, and I had been pressed to attend stuffy parties full of artists and critics I did not know, huffing and humming at various paintings and recent exhibitions. I lost myself in the sparkling bubbles of the champagne; saw with dazzled eyes the effervescent shapes of the frosted glasses against white starched tablecloths. And then I had fucked other artists who grunted and groaned in the haze of muffled clinking from the dining halls, or who had sucked me off and let me lose myself in wet sensations and the blinding flash of my climax. I had thought about it as I cleaned myself up one evening, pulling my tux back on and smoothing the rumpled shirt down over my chest. I was 24, truly on my way to finding success in this harsh competitive world. Looking at my blackly polished shoes, I sighed. And yet no word from him. But what did I expect? He was letting me go, freeing me to find the affluence my art supposedly merited, and I did not blame him. In fact, I secretly thanked him.

And then one day it had arrived. A plain box sitting on the mat outside the front door of my apartment in the afternoon, a week after my birthday. After carrying it inside, I circled it thoughtfully. It looked too big to be the delivery of brushes I was expecting and the 'fragile' sticker was incongruous. So I slid a knife over the binding tape, and slowly lifted the rough brown flaps of the top. What I saw made me draw in my breath with a gasp, and lose my stomach somewhere to the flat below. The thudding and crashing of my heart rendered me immobile for a minute and then, with a spreading grin I reached in and lifted the potted plant out of the box. The leaves framed flowers that were huge and sensuous and burned with a fiery glow; it was a golden gardenia.

Although no note had come with the box, I knew it was from Brian. I had stifled a laugh as I gazed at the plant, a message he still cared, still remembered. That night I had slept so peacefully, and had dreamt of the past.

***

Pittsburgh

Brian arrived home to the loft from work and shrugged off his jacket, tossing it on the sofa. He pulled off his tie and thought about going to Babylon. But then he remembered the account that was due in the next day and sighed scathingly. Couldn't shirk duty, even if you owned the fucking business. So he crossed to the kitchen counter and poured himself two amber fingers of Beam before picking up his briefcase and striding towards his computer. He had fucked a hot stranger earlier in the day, who had already given him drugs, and he knew he did not really want to go to Babylon, even if he felt compelled to for appearance's sake. He smiled surprisedly to himself as he slipped off his shoes and tossed them in the direction of the door: maybe adulthood was catching up with him after all, despite Mickey's best efforts to remind him of his perpetual immaturity.

But before he could reach his desk, a wave of dizziness hit him, along with a sharp pain in his side. Doubling over and gasping, Brian felt waves of chills snaking up his spine and spreading out to each limb. The glass crashed to the floor, bleeding golden liquid out onto the polished floorboards. Brian felt his chest was being crushed, constricted and he fought to breathe against the crippling pain. The loft became misty, and his head pounded with blood as he gasped, clutching his side, panting into the evening silence. And then it passed as quickly as it had begun. Brian caught his breath, sweating slightly and gazing around, cursing himself for accepting drugs off a stranger. After ten minutes he felt better and paced his loft trying to concentrate on his work, but he felt exhausted and drained and eventually gave up and crawled into bed, slipping between the cool navy sheets and thinking briefly, as he did every night he went to bed alone, of Justin.

***

New York

JUSTIN:

I visited 'the scene' in New York a few times a week, glad to be back in the grinding 'thumpa thumpa' that allowed me to drink, to dance, to fuck, and not have to think. The bright lights and crashing music felt like home, and the pulsating bodies enveloped me, swept me up, and carried me away into my need. Brian was right all those years ago when he had raved about the men in New York; it was not just the immense choice, it was the pure perfection of so many of them that captivated me. I plunged into so many, rutting and groaning my release from the stresses of work, from the emotional drain of my art.

One night in early December, I came in from Zion, the local gay club, to find the telephone ringing. Swallowing my pleasant drunkenness I answered and was happily surprised to hear my mom, Jennifer, on the phone.

" We would love to come down and visit, if you are up for it!" She said, and I could hear Molly in the background, babbling about a trip to New York.

I smiled "Of course, Mom, I'd love to see you both. Why don't you come down for Christmas?"

I heard her breath hitch in her throat "Are you sure?" She gushed "I mean, we won't be interrupting anything...?"

I laughed and assured her that I would only have been forced to go to a host of fundraisers and dinner parties, and that seeing her and Molly was a much preferable way to spend my Christmas.

So, late in December, I drove my car to the airport to pick them up, two strangers wrapped in scarves and wooly hats, Molly's little hands trussed up in Debbie's handmade mittens. To see them both again after so long was wonderful, but painful at the same time. Jennifer was crying as she exclaimed how different I looked, how grown up I was, how she loved my hair longer again. I put them both up on the spare mattresses I kept in my apartment, and loitered by one of my easels, leaning against the cool metal as they examined my home; complimenting on my equipment, my kitchen, my style in furnishings.

I began asking about people back in Pittsburgh, realizing for the first time how isolated and cut off from them I felt, here in my solitary tower of success, my island of ambition. I learnt that Hunter was doing well at college, that Michael and Ben had come back from a trip to Tibet, Ben slightly more enthusiastic then Michael. I smiled at the thought and then laughed out loud at the information that Debbie was sticking to her 'no-wigs' policy, for I had been sure when I heard of it that it wasn't going to last, Debbie being the flamboyant queen she is.

And then I couldn't help myself. "And Brian" I asked, "What about Brian."

My mom looked at me with an expression of mingled pride and pity. "He's fine, Justin." She said eventually, and then, looking to the side: "Do you two speak on the phone anymore?"

I told her no, that I was getting on with my life, but I could not hide from her the depth of my feeling and she took me in her arms.

"I know how much you love him." She said against my ruffled hair. "And I saw how much he loved you. I am sorry for all those times I doubted you, or him. I was so happy when you said he had asked you to..."

She didn't finish. And I was glad she didn't. We didn't marry because I went away, but I knew I was going to marry him, just not the next day, or the next week... it didn't matter, I knew I still loved him, in all his beauty and imperfection and glory. And so I smiled at my mom, and we mentioned no more.

***

Pittsburgh

Christmas at the Novotny house was chaotic, exotic, delicious, suspicious, loud, proud, colorful, bountiful, and filled with food and a good mood. The whole group was there, including Brian, dressed smartly in a red turtleneck jumper and bouncing a laughing Gus on his lap, Lindsey and Melanie, who kept their promise to return to the coop for family celebrations and public holidays, Ted and a smiling Blake, who had recently been awarded for his work at the rehab centre, Ben, Hunter and Michael, Emmett, dressed in a flamboyant reindeer suit, and of course Debbie, in a gold glittering shirt and Carl, with red face and a merry grin.

This year there was a new Christmas angel atop the tree. Peering down, it would have seen Carl wrestling with the turkey, which had been left too long in the oven by Emmett, and which was almost big enough to strap a saddle to and make into a mount for Gus. It would have seen Brian looking fondly at his son, while the boy opened his presents amidst cheers and laughter. It would have seen Lindsey come and sit behind Brian and link her hand in his, exchanging a loving look with her friend. It would have seen Debbie shriek in amazement when she received a complete new makeup kit from Emmett, and multicolored gloves and hat from Michael. It would have looked down at the festive dining table, always the hub of Debbie's house, at the delicacies and the wine glasses that clinked when Debbie proposed a toast in honor of Justin, and Jennifer, in New York, celebrating their own Christmas. May they never forget their family. Clink.

Later, in the crisp night air outside Debbie's porch, Brian lit up a cigarette. He chuckled as Gus huddled up to his leg in the cold, and reached down to pick up the boy and hold him against his body. Gus leaned his head against Brian's shoulder, his eyes heavy-lidded and sleepy, and together they listened to the muffled jollity inside the house, and looked at the ancient harnessed reindeer Debbie had insisted on putting out. Suddenly Brian looked up, and put out his hand.

"Well, whaddya know, sonny boy." He said softly, "It's snowing."

***

End of Chapter 3.


	4. Chapter 4

**604 - Unseen Presence**

*3 months later* March 2006

"_Not to look on those eyes, _

_Those lips, that hair, -_

_All the smiling disguise that thou dost wear." _

_- Shelley_

New York

JUSTIN:

I walked around the stalwart table at the centre of my apartment for the hundredth time; staring at the assortment of canvasses propped up like so many shambolic shards of a quartz crystal. Raising my hand to my forehead and sighing with exasperation, I tugged a large one out from under smaller frames and stood it up against the wall; it was complex and chaotic, burning with red intensity and yellow ferocity. I had painted it some weeks ago and looking at it now, I felt a flush rise to my cheeks: my art reflected so much of me, it made me feel exposed. But I had once told Mikey that the greatest art is usually personal, and I still believed that. Let them judge me, tear me apart. I have already given all I have to give.

And I really had no cause to complain: I had been received with better reviews, more success and more popularity than I had ever imagined. Arriving as a small-town artist, following his dream on the suggestion of another; I had expected obscurity, intolerance and belittlement. Instead, although it had been hard, I had found that critics praised my thematic choices, the public was attracted to the energy of my work and I myself found a rhythm, an inventive cadence, producing increasingly adroit work. The reason I was now staring at my paintings in the middle of my floor was because Mr. Olsen had taken me to dinner one day and dropped the bomb of which I had dreamt for the 11 months I had been in New York: I had been asked to effectuate my first solo show.

I had stared at him over the oysters and salmon, at his crisp white shirt and costly black suit, aware of my mouth forming into an irrepressible grin.

"When?" I had asked "Where? And why...now?"

Henry Olsen had smiled his suave smile over the rim of his champagne glass. "In April," he said. "At the Manhattan Emerging Art Gallery and because, Mr. Taylor, you are proving yourself to be very worth my while!" He sat back and took off his glasses, tapping them against his chin as he regarded me amusedly.

"Do you know to whom I sold one of your paintings yesterday?" He inquired and when I shook my head, exclaimed "Mr. William Farthinstoke!" reaching over and thumping me on the shoulder.

_Mr. Farthinstoke. Rich. Rotund. Ruthless. Renowned. One of the most prolific collectors in New York, he set the trends. Once he started collecting an artist's work, they found themselves rolling, recklessly, radically, into repute. Fame slithered behind this man like a luxuriant shadow. Porky hands smothered in gold rings. Money sings. Bathing in millions. A celebrity in the dusty world of art collectors, his interest heralded distinction, elevation, triumph._

I felt the blood rush away from my head and down to my fingers and toes with a numbing tingle. At last! 11 months of paint-smeared nights working at my easel, 11 months of smiling and being introduced to clicking black heels in salon soirees, 11 months of watching and cultivating my own voracious style, and finally I was recognized! Success beckoned like gaping jaws, lined with applauding admirers like so many glistening teeth. Mr. Olsen went on, beaming whilst lighting up a cigar in celebration, telling me that one of my recent compositions, 'Chaining a soul', had caught Mr. Farthinstoke's small shiny eye as he cruised around one of the accumulative exhibitions. I thought back to the painting, one I had crafted on an agitated day, wanting to express the intense frustration I had felt after the bashing, a frustration I was reluctant to admit I still felt at times.

_Strong black strokes almost totally conceal a vague bright shape behind. From a distance one can see it is crouched, swirling colors bunched tightly with anticipation and sadness. With allusions to Watt's 1885 painting 'Hope' the figure reaches out its hand as if to catch the music from the last remaining string of an almost shattered lyre. A blindfold is hinted at with angry gash of navy paint and the ether around the edges of the canvas burns with tireless brush strokes, emotion tumbling out, screaming, rolling with heavy, textured technique. A soaring mind imprisoned by a deficient body, an intellectual ambition thwarted by a shaking hand._

***

Pittsburgh

Brian wove his way through the swaying forest of multicolored bodies in Babylon. Michael followed behind him, grinning and tripping slightly from the mild drugs Brian had shared with him behind Ben's back. Not that Brian much did drugs these days, Michael mused. In fact he had become altogether more...sober. In character and behavior since... Michael pushed the thoughts from his mind, slightly embarrassed that he still felt a pang of jealousy when he remembered Justin, even though he had seen with his own eyes what a confident, serious and thoughtful young man Justin had become, and how good he had been for Brian. Did Michael's sexual attraction for his friend still take precedence after all these years? Michael shook his head. It was stupid and he had Ben, who was hot...yet not in the same way as Brian's powerful slenderness, his assertive poise, his masculine beauty...

A jovial shout interrupted Michael's thoughts: Ted was standing at the bar laughing, his arm around Blake's slight shoulders, beckoning and gesturing towards a gin and tonic. Michael pushed past a kissing couple and joined his friends. Brian leaned nonchalantly against one of the metal beams, a cocktail resting next to him on the bar. He smiled and grabbed Michael around the back of the neck, pulling him in with a laugh.

"So, what'll it be for Mikey?" he chuckled, and Michael thought he could see a hint of something behind the usual guarded eyes with their casual expression; a hint of...worry? Pain? What was it? But he forgot all about it when his 'Bloody Mary' arrived and he nearly choked at the taste of tomato in a drink.

"There was nearly a bashing last week" Ted forwarded, earning a scathing look from Brian and surprise from Michael and Blake.

"What do you mean nearly?' his boyfriend asked, and Ted played with his hair as he replied; "It was in 'Out' last weekend! I picked one up in the diner after I finished spread-sheeting my tax returns and filing the latest income from out new clients at Kinnetic..."

"Okay Schmidt, no more about your wonderful world of dancing numbers" Brian interrupted with a friendly sneer. "Or do you want every stud in my club to loose his hard-on?"

"Right." Ted continued "Anyway, I saw that some thugs had started to threaten a young gay boy, and started chasing him," he threw a furtive glance at Brian, "but this kid, he ran away and they chased him....right into a gay bar!"

Michael felt the mirth bubbling up in his chest at the image of several gay bashers, complete with clubs and knives, suddenly finding themselves surrounded by a host of angry queens. He snuck a glance at Brian and saw he was smiling into his glass, never an exhibitionist. The thrumming pulse of the music beat through Michael's chest, and he closed his eyes, glad when Brian took his hand with a whispered "Let's dance" and they lost themselves in the sweat and glitter and skin and flashing lights on the dance floor. Gazing at Brian as he swayed, his head back and his eyes on the lofty darkness above the disco illumination, Mikey smiled and began to mentally checklist the things that Hunter would need for University next year...

Suddenly, Brian stopped. His stillness was a stark contrast to the swaying energy surrounding them, and he grasped out, catching hold of Mikey's shirt as his eyes focused on the ground. Glitter turning misty. And then, as Michael turned in surprise, Brian's knees buckled beneath him and he crumpled to the floor. Michael's mind became soundless: bodies moved to no music, mouths opened in silent shouts, lights flared in the quietude. Brian lay, unmoving on the boards, his hand curled beside him and Michael, in a bizarre state of tranquility, noticed the soft skin on his palm and the fine long fingers...

And then it was all clamouring and crowding and people bending down pushing Michael out the way, his heart hammering in his chest. Glances and bellows for a doctor, shouting above the deafening music. Finally, Mikey shoved his way through, pulling a concerned man off Brian, and bent down to roll his friend over. Brian's eyes were closed, his lids bluish and his skin a deathly pale but he was breathing. Unconscious. Screaming for Ted, Mikey fought back the panic in his throat and swallowed terrified tears as he gestured for him to call the paramedics. And on all sides people danced on, lost in the beat: just another person collapsed, nightly occurrence. A small hubbub in one corner of the dance floor, whilst all around the 'thumpa thumpa' continued.

***

New York

JUSTIN:

I woke in a cold sweat. Looking at my alarm clock, I saw it was still the early hours of the morning: the streetlight were on outside and a midnight chill misted the windows. My dreams had been nameless, complex and fleeting. I knew I was under a lot of stress from putting on my own show, and the pressure of so many people's expectations. I had not been sleeping well for the past few nights; waking early, thinking incessantly, painting to the point of exhaustion. No matter how I tried, nothing I created gave me satisfaction, and I was sure it would not satisfy the public either, and so frustration had crept into my work, hardening angles and coarsening brushstrokes, bringing back the phrase_ 'crude and heavy-handed'_ with a biting irony.

I expelled my breath in an exasperated huff and threw off the covers, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and standing in the cold midnight silence, feeling the dark coolness rolling over my neck and arms and breathing slowly. Only one week until my show. FUCK. And I _still_ did not have anything that I felt proud of, that was worthy of the New York standard, the standard I knew they would be expecting. I walked over to my easel and picked up a fresh canvas; maybe I might be able to capture some of the unfathomable and disturbing energy of my dreams. It was then I realized with a jolt and a sudden knot in my stomach that my hand was shaking. Badly. Twitching and jerking with a life of its own. Sure, I had painted for 10 hours solid yesterday, but still it had not played up like this in years.

_Brian had always known when I was having trouble, when I was upset, or angry, and when my hand shook even when I tried to hide it. Before I fell in with Cody; when anger was hardening my soul and clouding my head; I had searched so hard for a way to release that fury. Fury at Chris Hobbes, fury at what had happened to me and how it had put my life on hold, but most of all fury at myself for being inactive, for not seeking revenge, or at least justice. For being so powerless against his violence, for thinking that I could actually find myself again through my art. _

_Brian had come home that night to find me stormily drawing and re-drawing, hard charcoal strokes over old ones, deeper and deeper, darker and darker, as if I could actually make the pictures speak, if I just drew them well and harshly enough. He had padded over softly to me, picking up one of my discarded sheets of paper; one depicting a man's guts being ripped out by two grimacing transvestites with pointed teeth and huge hands. After studying it he had come to sit beside me, making a non-committal remark, aware of my fragile temper. And when I had felt the familiar tense shudder begin, and sworn at my fucking hand for being so useless, for embodying MY ineptitude, he had gently reached out and tried to take it, to give it the massage he and I knew always relaxed it. But I had pushed him away, too wound up and hostile to accept help. I wonder how many times he has been there for me and I didn't see it. His eyes that night as I spat out my anger, as I tried to alienate him through references to my bashing, were so soft. Concerned and quiet, he had just sat there and listened. Been there for me when I needed but not about to push me, no expectations, just his unconditional support, his unspoken commitment._

I looked up from my reverie, gazing across my empty apartment; my empty life; and pictured his face: deep green eyes burning into mine, soft full lips that I knew so well, pliant skin under which you could feel the hard angle of his jaw... I had stopped fantasizing about his body a few months ago, but at times like these, just the thought of his countenance; the beloved expressions, the familiar feel of his silky hair under my finders; made me smile and lose the burdens of the day. My hand had stopped shaking and I gently picked up a brush, feeling the old shiver of inspiration run down my spine. With a smile playing on my lips, I sat down at my easel and began to paint.

***

Pittsburgh

The hospital staff told Michael that they wanted to keep Brian in for observation overnight after they had released him from E.R, unable to find anything that would have caused him to pass out. Brian, when he had recovered, as usual shrugged off the incident, but Mikey continued to worry.

"You've never passed out like that before," he said, glancing at Brian's impassive face in the clean neon-lit light of the ward, "It's always been due to booze or drugs…and I saw you were sober tonight"

"Or maybe" Brian interjected, a tired smile on his lips "I've just got better at hiding it…even from you!"

"Don't bullshit me, Brian. I know something's up. Now what is it?"

Brian looked at him, tilting his head to one side, and then he lifted his hand and placed it around the back of Michael's neck.

"I'll tell you as soon as I know, Mother Hen"

***

That night in the echoing hospital, Brian let himself think. What the fuck was wrong with him? Apart from the spells of dizziness, there had been a growing pain in his side, low in the pelvis, sometimes searing and making him clench his teeth, sometimes fading to a dull ache. He didn't want to imagine what his mother's God had cooked up for him this time… Despite his 'fuck-'em-all' attitude and his uncaring masquerade, Brian cared deeply that his mother had condemned him to hell. A part of him wondered whether she was right, whether he was meant to be punished for breaking some stupid fucking rule in a musty old book, probably written by a bunch of power-hungry priests to control their followers through fear and dogmatism. Whatever.

His thoughts took him back to Justin, and he wished, for a moment, that his partner…Yes, he allowed himself to think that word, for after all they had been through nothing else really fit… was there. And then he mentally kicked himself for even imagining that Justin would want to come back, away from his new life, his success, where one wrong move now would make or break his career. Who was Brian to tie him down, chain him emotionally, drag him back to dirty old Pittsburgh? That is why he had stopped phoning, had left Justin physically and emotionally free to do whatever he wanted to do, and fulfil whatever potential he wanted. Brian grimaced as the sound of distant retching and groaning reached his ears. Corridors of ghosts. He wondered briefly whether his father had spent time here, in the weeks before he died…Jack Kinney, not meant to be a family man, but always willing to sponge money off his dutiful son. Dishing out insults and heartbreak with one hand whilst accepting cheques and support with the other. Brian pursed his lips: now the old fucker was dead and gone.

The next morning, early, just after the nurse had made her rounds, dishing out pills to reaching hands like sweets to eager children, Brian found a doctor at the foot of his bed. Having already dressed from the night bag Mikey had brought, he sat on the mattress and glanced up, mentally preparing himself. The older man, in a white starched coat and big spectacles, came round to face him, holding a clipboard in the crook of his arm and raising his hugely bushy grey eyebrows he asked Brian to follow him into his office on the floor above. Once there, Brian sat down on the big leather chair to one side of the desk, and the doctor on the other.

"Mr Kinney," he began, "My name is Dr. Berelowitz. I hear you were brought in unconscious last night from a … nightclub"

Brian snorted, "Yeah Doc, but I wasn't unconscious for the reason you think!"

Dr. Berelowitz pressed the tips of his fingers together and peered at Brian over the tops of them. "I know." He said quietly. And when Brian folded his arms, sat back in his chair and waited, he continued; "We could not at first find what was wrong with you, so we ran some more extensive tests. The results came back this morning and… It appears you have stage 2 osteosarcoma. It is a form of bone cancer, and looking at your medical history, I would say probably secondary to the testicular cancer that was removed 2 years ago."

Brian let out a short disbelieving laugh. "I guess God isn't finished with me after all!" he muttered. Dr. Berelowitz looked up, "Sorry?" and Brian glanced away: "Nothing." Then he was silent before clearing his throat and glancing around the suddenly spinning office. "What are my chances? What do you have to do?"

Dr. Berelowitz frowned and sat forward in his chair; "The prognosis is not totally negative," he said carefully. "Survival ranges from 50% to 60%. What's more, the tumour is on your upper right femur and so is operable, and although it is metastatic osteosarcoma, the metastases are few and localised, meaning we have caught it before it was certified terminal. The typical symptoms of osteosarcoma, some of which you have been experiencing; pain, joint swelling, fatigue, fever, weight loss, dizziness and anaemia can all be easily mistaken for flu or hyperglycemia and so the cancer often goes unnoticed for a time. The fact too that it does not initially show up on your routine blood tests makes it hard to diagnose."

Dr. Berelowitz stood up and reached behind him on the shelf, pulling down a large black diary. "But now, Mr. Kinney" he said, "I recommend you undergo pre-operative chemotherapy and localised radiotherapy to try and shrink the tumour. Then, in a few months we may have to operate. I am going to book you in for radiotherapy once a month for the first few months before switching to chemo once a month and after that we may have to intensify the treatments. Just make sure you look after yourself at home and read up on osteosarcoma. I really am very sorry." He smiled ruefully at Brian who bit his lip and stared out the window, shaking his head slightly.

The doctor leaned across his desk. "I must tell you, Mr. Kinney, that despite the success of chemotherapy for osteosarcoma, it has one of the lowest survival rates for osteopathic cancer. So it may be best to start preparing yourself for it to go either way...tell the wife and kids..."

Brian turned to look at him and smiled a sardonic smile: "I'll be sure to do that Doc!" he said, and then, picking up his bag and gathering the papers Dr. Berelowitz gave him, he walked slowly, numb, out of the hospital and into the sunny street.

***

New York

JUSTIN:

The hall was buzzing when I took a deep breath and stepped through the misted glass doors. Seeing the huge banner outside the gallery with a copy of one of my paintings and my name in massive black lettering had made the nerves clutch at my chest, restricting, making me want to turn tail and run. But this was it, the moment I had been waiting for, where I would surely come to life in the eyes of New York, or die with the floundering masses: my first solo show.

So I plunged into the sea of dinner jackets and champagne and collectors and art students and gallery directors, no doubt invited by Mr. Olsen. Immediately I was surrounded by congratulations and pats on the back and smiles and appreciative remarks. Throughout the afternoon I mingled and talked with various people, wanting to know about my inspiration (I couldn't tell them of my real muses, but I said the appropriate and slipped in and out of conversation.) I had become quite the socialite: New York had taught me well. The energetic kid with his passions and frustrations seemed a distant memory now - I was Justin Taylor, acclaimed Manhattan artist, an upcoming name in art magazines. I saw with a start the broad round shoulders of Mr. Farthinstoke coasting above the crowd and I made my way over to him. He congratulated me and looked down his nose at me then looked up at one of my paintings, and the arrogant smile playing around his jowls told me he would buy another of my works and make my fortune.

Later that evening I was approached by a thin woman in a black silk dress and massive white pearls. She introduced herself pompously as Veronica King, art critic and collector, in the business for over 45 years, her small black eyes darting amusedly over my face and her claw-like hands playing with her lace scarf.

"So, you are the Justin Taylor that Henry won't shut up about!" She crooned. "I must say you are quite young to be so talented…how old are you?"

"Twenty-four" I replied, smiling at her bluntness.

We talked about trivial things and Pittsburgh and as she spoke Ms. King walked, leading me over to my painting 'Chaining a soul'. When we were stood in front of it she turned to contemplate it. "This one intrigued me especially" she murmured, eyes darting over the rough texture of the paint with its flaring colors concealed by darker strokes. "There is such an entrapped energy to it."

"Yes," I rejoined "That one pretty much comes from…experience" And when she turned back to me with a questioning look, I told her of my hand after the assault and how I had felt so restricted and angry.

She looked at me with a pitying expression; "Don't you worry young man, you have proven yourself here, and you need never think about it again. You can go and get a wonderful wife who will love you like you deserve…Do you already have a wife? A sweetheart perhaps?"

I shifted the weight on my feet; "Well, actually…" But Ms. King cut in with a knowing smile, "Back in Pittsburgh is she? How can you resist!"

"There is someone" I said firmly, looking her in the eye, wondering as I said those words whether they were still true. "But it's not a girl. I am gay, you see".

Her face went blank as her mask of propriety slipped and she stared at me, quickly looking me up and down as if my sexual orientation would show on the outside…which it did for people like Emmett I suppose. Then she turned back to stare at my painting, putting her claw up to her mouth as she scrutinized it, for lack of anything to say.

I continued as I too looked at the huge canvass; "It was a hate crime, someone struck me in the skull with a baseball bat for being gay." I turned to look at her.

Finally she swiveled back to face me, and despite her obvious struggle a small smile was playing on her lips. "I must admit that I never would have guessed it… and I doubt I will ever understand it! But you will make some lucky man very happy, Mr. Taylor." Her expression turned thoughtful "You know, I've never actually admired a homosexual before!"

***

Pittsburgh

Brian sat on the white rug on the floor of his apartment, a joint held carelessly in-between his fingers. Night blurred the illuminated buildings in the window behind him and he felt peaceful, or was it hopeless? Mikey and the boys would bounce over in a few hours, ready to go to Babylon and celebrate: back into the tireless beat, the celestial sway, the mindless effulgence. Yet Brian did not think he could lose himself anymore in the club, could not shrug off all thought like in times past. Debbie's words came back to him through the fog of his memory: _"Mourn the losses because they are many, but celebrate the victories because they are few."_ Brian sighed, taking a drag from the thin white cylinder in his hand; maybe he _should_ accept it with grace and dignity…

He lifted a card off the table and gazed at it. Years had passed like leaves blowing in the wind, and there was nothing he could do to fight it. It was his 35th birthday, and Brian felt momentarily bitter:_ Fine fucking present God had decided to give him._ But there was also nothing he could do to fight the doctor's revelation earlier that week. So he leaned back and stared up at the distant ceiling, revelling in the smallest sensations: the feel of the thick carpet beneath his bare feet, the hard edge of the sofa behind his back, the gentle touch of a breeze on his cheek from the half-open window.

***

End of Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

**605 - Cloud is Scattered (Chapter 5)**

*2 months later* May 2006

_When the lamp is shattered, _

_The light in the dust lies dead - _

_When the cloud is scattered, _

_The rainbow's glory is shed. _

_- Shelley_

Pittsburgh

Brian had started pre-operative radiotherapy and surprisingly, he didn't feel too bad. He was able to go into work, make signature appearences at Babylon, and avoid discovery by his friends. Shit. That was just it. He had promised Michael that he would notify him if anything was wrong. And now it had been 2 months since the doctor's rampageous revelation and he still had not plucked up the goddamn courage to tell him. Because it would cause that look in Mikey's eyes, the fucking pitying, condescending, worried look that made Brian feel so condemned.

There came a knock at the door, followed by a cheery call: Michael had come to visit. Brian sighed and leaned his head back, taking in the clear white of the sloping ceiling and the fluttering patterns of sunlight from through the leaves outside. Then he got up from where he had been sitting at his computer and padded across to the door barefoot, sliding it open and grinning when Mikey pushed his way in, holding two joints.

"Thought I'd stop by on my way back from the store!" He announced, handing one to Brian and flopping down on the couch, "And I thought you could use one of these, given the supernatural stress of your judicious jazzy job!"

Brian laughed. "Is it also perhaps because your homeostatic hubby would have a heart attack if he saw you smoking a secret spilff?" He walked to the kitchen counter to pick up his lighter, then returned to the living room area and perched on the coffee table, facing Mikey, his legs stretched out, ankles crossed, as he lit up and passed the lighter to his friend.

They talked about trivial things for a while; Emmett's latest adventure with new hair curlers, the unanticipated success of Kinnetik, Mel and Linds' complaints about Canada. But Brian knew that he had to break the news, somehow. It was not going to be easy: Michael almost surpassed Debbie when it came to emotional hysteria, and Brian was sure that once he knew, Mikey would not leave him alone. Yet he also knew that he could not play innocent this time; Mikey would not forgive him, not after what had happened before. So, when the conversation died down, and they were both surrounded in an ephemeral haze of pearly smoke, he sat up and looked across the short distance that separated them.

"Mikey..." he began.

His friend looked up, a goofy grin on his face and Brian felt bad for almost certainly going to ruin the moment, unless Michael was far more stoned than ever before and would laugh it off. Brian somehow thought that was unlikely. He looked down to his polished floor, cursing the fact that this was so hard to do, that there was almost a physical barrier, a tightening in his chest, restricting, as he teetered on the edge of changing the way Michael looked at him, spoke to him, looked up to him. Brian cleared his throat whilst his friend sat cross-legged on the couch not quite giving his full attention, and decided to take the plunge.

"When I...passed out in Babylon" Brian glanced up at Mikey and drew his lips into his mouth in an effort to find the right words, but he was interrupted.

"Christ, Brian! What is it? You're scaring me! Did they do tests? Did they find out what was wrong with you? I knew it couldn't be drugs because I knew that you hadn't taken any that night in fact I haven't seen you tripping in..."

"MIKEY! Listen to me. Are you listening?" Brian reached out and cupped his hand round the back of the other man's head, then looked down and withdrew, crossing his arms over his chest and finally raising his eyes to meet Mikey's. "I need you NOT to freak out, okay. You can afford not to be a big fat fucking sissy. Yeah they did the tests and discovered what made me do a Marilyn Monroe in the middle of the dance-floor. It... I..." Brian swallowed and frowned as he unfolded his arms and raised his shoulders. "The cancer's come back."

_That was it. He'd said it. _Cautiously he peered up at Michael who was sitting stock still staring at him, obviously trying to shake the last remnants of dope-filled haze from his head. Brian heard the ticking clunk of his wall clock it was so silent in the loft. He was reminded bitterly of that night, 6 years ago_. The night which had brought he and Justin together, when he was reminded of his own mortality by the wrinkled baby in the hospital room. In his stoned state, he had heard a ticking then too. Tick tick tick, his child had said to him, drilling into him with each heartbeat that he could not reverse time, could not stop it, and that he was racing headlong to old age and death. Now the message was even more biting; what if he only had a year left? Brian began to think over his life and regret that it was not fuller when he stopped himself. If he was going to go, it was not going to be like some whimpering little faggot. It was going to be with no excuses, no apologies, no regrets. _

He was brought out of his thoughts by Mikey shifting in front of him. His friend cleared his throat, and Brian had to commend him for not going overemotionally berserk. Mikey kept his eyes fixed on Brian's. "Where is it now?"

"My bones. My upper right thighbone, to be exact."

"Oh God Brian. Shit."

"That's what I said."

Mikey's eyes were filling with tears and Brian felt the old anger come back that he had to be pitied, that his friends had to suffer. He didn't even want to think about why they might be sad. He wasn't fucking dead YET for God's sake. He reached over and squeezed Michael's shoulder. "Look, I'm alright. I'm doing okay. I'm having radiotherapy and the doctors are...optimistic." Filling Michael in on the important details; they can operate, it's treatable, have to wait and see; Brian felt numb, like it was happening to someone else. Some other poor sucker's fucking nightmare. Then Michael was talkative, full of suggestions of herbal remedies, adamant that he would NOT tell the others until he had to, overly optimistic; trying to cover the tears with exuberance. Brian was quiet, still, staring at the white rug and taking half-hearted puffs on another joint, held loosely between his fingers.

Finally, Michael took hold of Brian's hand and brought it down, looking into the evasive green eyes. "Have you told Justin?"

Brian sighed and rolled his eyes, making to get up off the coffee table, but Mikey kept hold of his hand and held fast. "Brian, have you told him?"

"No."

"Well, when are you going to?"

Brian looked calmly down at his friend. "I'm not."

Mikey immediately stood up, coming face to face with Brian. "No fucking way! You are not doing that to him again! There is no way on earth that I am going to let you lie to him after all he went through last time! He really loves you, you know, and..."

Brian cut him off. "MICHAEL! Unless you haven't noticed, we are NOT TOGETHER any more. We haven't spoken in 6 months. He has a new life in New York and I will be damned if I call him up and make him come running back with a sob story", he put on a whining voice, "poor Brian's got cancer, he needs you to come home and give up your dream!"

And when Michael just stared at him reproachfully, he continued, sighing. "Look, I will tell him - but there is no need right now. I'm feeling fine, and he has just had a huge show. If he comes running back out of a feeling of obligation now he will miss his big break and ruin his chances. No, I may be sick, but I'm not THAT sick. But when I am, Mrs Puddleduck, I will tell him. Have no fear."

Michael slowly nodded. He was clearly still unhappy with the idea, but saw the sense of it. After a minute of silence he slowly put his arms around his friend, feeling Brian's slowly come up around his back. They stayed there like that, embracing, all the cares of the world swirling with a dark foreboding, and the fading evening light tuning the wooden floor to gold.

***

New York

JUSTIN:

_Floor littered with crumpled pieces of paper. Feet ache. Half-finished glasses of wine and whiskey recline on arms of chairs and edges of tables. Smug. Forgotten. Light caresses the blue curtains, toys with them. Eyes are tired. Paints lie expectantly in their wooden box, covers drawn up, colors closed up. Smell of exhaustion hangs in the air like smog. Breathing. Reaching. Grasping. Clothes in a pile on the floor, crumpled like felled soldiers. Smoldering ideas spread their wings and wait, like insubstantial waifs, while their host lies prone. Hollow as an autumn tree trunk. Used up. Spent. Peaceful. _

I lay on my bed, covers tangled haphazardly over me, too tired and worn out and excited to tidy my messy apartment, or begin thinking about painting again. The show had been... intense. Hand after hand I had shaken, until they became a waving forest haunting my dreams. Face after face I had smiled at, until I no longer saw eyes, only glaring lipstick or sycophantic stubble. The energy which had surged into me upon seeing my name 'in lights', so to speak, and had carried me through the weeks of my show, had brought with it a feverish burst of effervescent yet unsubstantiated creation: I had drawn but scrunched up, painted but thrown away. And now the adrenalin had faded from my system like a drug wearing off, taking with it my illusion of vitality. I felt like a damp leaf squashed underfoot. Bled dry of my creative current, helpless but to drift in a clouded world of muted sounds and white oblivion.

It did not improve my mood to think of the young man I had caught following me on several occasions recently. I saw him first at an exposition at Mr Olsen's gallery; he had come up and introduced himself as an post-graduate art student, interested especially in modern art. I knew from the moment I saw the way he was looking at me that he was gay, and had felt a surge of arousal at the absolute freedom I felt: I could fuck this guy, he wouldn't object, and neither would anyone else. But I did NOT take him to the toilets. We exchanged a few banal words, then I excused myself as I was called by Mr Olsen who wanted to introduce me elsewhere. Since that evening, I had seen him more and more. He came to my exhibition and gushed to me as I tried to balance talking to several guests at once. He had caught up with me in the street and asked me where I lived, needless to say I did NOT tell him. After that he did not try to speak to me again, but I still saw his face staring at me in the most unusual situations, and it annoyed me, then it freaked me out. In a cafe, at the park, during a trip to the theatre, at a private gallery, in men's washrooms. Just a glimpse, but always the same: his face, smiling, white and moon-shaped, shining out of crowds or shadows and into my consciousness, making me uneasy. He was ubiquitous! I knew he was stalking me, and I knew that he was probably harmless; all the same, his constant yet indiscernible presence irked me.

Suddenly, I heard a sound outside the door to my apartment. Whether it was because I had been focusing on my stalker, or because I was still emotionally exhausted, I got up immediately, puling on a loose pair of grey sweat pants, and stood, heart pounding, listening in the centre of my floor. It was too early in the morning for it to be Adele with the paper and her usual happy chatter. The sound came again and I slowly reached for the heavy cane of wood used to prop up my spare easel: It was the sound of a person trying not to be heard. Getting closer to the door, the sound of breathing filtered through to me; heavy, suppressed breathing. Briefly closing my eyes and steeling myself, I flung open the door. The sight I beheld made me stand stock-still, staring in disgust. There stood my stalker, I didn't even remember his name, his hair greasy and his face red, with his hand down his pants. Upon seeing me he stumbled back, zipping up his fly.

"What the FUCK are you doing here?" I asked, my hands on my hips, glaring at him but feeling the bubbles of laughter forming in my chest at his obvious embarrassment and the absurdity of the situation. "How do you know where I live?"

He swallowed before looking me straight in the eye. "I found out from a friend who knows Mr Olsen. I ...er... I wanted to come and see you, I thought that maybe we ..."

"Why have you been following me?"

His eyes lit up in a crafty smile, "Because you're hot."

I laughed and looked up at the doorframe. "And you think that by stalking me you can get me to fuck you."

He gazed levelly at me. He was tall, well built, with a mop of mousey hair and very dark eyes. He must have been in his late 20s and was dressed in a well-cut pair of jeans and a casual shirt and sweater. He could see me looking and grinned.

"The name's Logan."

Later, after I had invited him in and we had fucked, we lay side by side on my bed, the sheets lightly covering us, and the morning light warming the room. He gazed at my abandoned easels and commented on my talent. Reluctantly I told him of my inspirational low, how nothing seemed to appear, and he laughed, assuring me that it happened to all his artist friends as well and not to worry. It was nice to talk to someone so casually, but I could not help the ache as I remembered the lazy hours lying curled up with Brian, talking, making out, just being in each other's presence.

_It had not always been like that. In the beginning Brian had scorned all forms of affection and always abruptly left for a shower or a piss after sex. I had been so naive then, I had felt annoyed at his lack of endearment, unable to comprehend the reasons for his fear of commitment. Later I had understood, had seen the negativity drilled into him by his father, had seen how he was made as a child to feel so unwanted that he was afraid to love anyone because he felt he didn't deserve it. Brian Kinney was a complicated soul. But I had tried to show him, through my actions and my words, that I would NOT hurt him, would NOT leave him and break his heart. Sure, my infatuation with him had at first been driven by my sexual appetites and my adolescent attraction to his beauty. But even before the first year was up, I had seen other sides to him, sides he tried to hide from the outside world because they would tarnish his steel cold image; a generosity, a nobility, a morality, an unfathomable humility. _

_When, after throwing a fabulous birthday party for Michael, he had outed him and brought his world crashing around his ears, everyone had hated Brian. They had stormed out, throwing insults which struck him visibly, I could see, like arrows in his chest. Yet he had not fought back, or explained the reason for his pushing Michael away so strongly. Had not told them that it was the only way Michael could move on with David and forget Brian, had not allowed them to see what a selfless and caring thing he had done. Instead he had just stood there and taken the blame, the insults, the anger. But I had watched quietly and had put two and two together; things Debbie had said in the diner, the fact that Brian had also invited David to the party... I suspected I knew what was going on. And so I had stayed. Silently clearing up, because I knew words were useless and would not be welcome. I had seen how torn up he was by the loss of his best friend, and that, I think, is when I began to recognize the other sides of Brian. And I had fallen in love all over again. _

***

Pittsburgh

Debbie decided that she was going to make Carl Horvath happy and marry him. Despite her still rock hard principles and her adamance to stand up for gay rights, some of her magnanimity had vanished along with her wigs. She WANTED to get married. After all, she was not young anymore, and she wanted to be a wife by the time she retired. IF she EVER retired. Carl, of course, was so shocked when she made the announcement that he nearly choked on his chicken breast and needed to be thwacked on the back by his betrothed before he could speak.

The next they told Michael and the others.

Ted said: "About time too!"

Brian said: "Now he can make an honest woman of you!"

Emmett said: "Oh Deb you MUST let me plan the wedding for you!"

Hunter said: "Jeez, aren't you too old to get married? I mean, what's the point?" Earning him a cuff round the ear from the indignant bride.

Michael was relieved, having felt somewhat responsible for his mother's distinct lack of nuptials.

The day finally dawned and Mel and Linds, who had eagerly hurried down from Canada to attend the celebrations, left Gus with Brian and took their time-honoured make-up skills to the Novotny household. When they arrived they were greeted by Emmett, who had ushered Carl into a car and taken him to Michael and Ben's house to be dressed "because it is bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding!". Lindsey smiled to herself; it was certainly going to be a day to remember, if Emmett had anything to say about it. She thought back to her own wedding and the turmoil that had preceded it, almost causing it not to happen. Arrangement after arrangement had gone wrong, and she had reached the stage where hopeless despair took over, and something more scary; an apathy, an acceptance... thinking perhaps God did not want homosexuals to have that kind of union...

_And then Brian had come bursting into their lethargic morning despondency and Mel had jumped up from where she was sitting on the bed, as usual full of indignation and bristling with annoyance at him. Lindsey had just lain there; looking at his tousled hair, which shone in the little light that had wrestled it's way through the blinds. He had obviously not washed and his shirt was crumpled; he had stridden over to her side of the bed and she had felt his strong warm hand on her arm, pulling her up, and she had caught his intoxicating scent: tobacco, and sweat, and...Brian, but then she was dragged down, too shocked to protest, and bustled into his jeep along with an indignant Melanie. Brian, after having slammed the doors, swung himself silently into the driver's seat and started the engine, pulling away with his usual alarming speed. Lindsey had stared at the back of his head, at the soft curling hairs just above his collar, at the muscles of his strong graceful neck, partly hidden by the hood of his jacket. She had begun to suspect that he had engineered a miracle rescue, as he always did. Of course she knew he would deny it completely, preferring to stay anonymous, resented by others for his apathy, afraid to show that he cared because that would make him vulnerable, would allow him to be hurt. Lindsey remembered Debbie talking to her about Brian; "I'll never understand that man!!" she had said "To his friend's faces he acts like he couldn't give a shit, like he's a selfish un-caring asshole" She had snapped her gum and looked pointedly at Lindsey. "But he doesn't fool you and me huh? All those little things he does for his friends, in goddamn SECRET! Its obvious that he has a huge heart and cares very deeply... and in fact-" She looked surprised for a moment, "He's probably the most selfless and generous person I know!"_

_That day Brian had demonstrated what Debbie had said by coming into Lindsey's dressing room when Mel was absent. He had stood with an almost tentative stance, and Lindsey was burning inside with all the appreciation and hugs she wanted to give him, but she knew he would not want it, indeed he denied all credit, so she asked him to do up her dress instead. Feeling his gentle fingers buttoning carefully, Lindsey allowed herself to sink back into her old fantasy for a moment... Him and her, their wedding. Him doing up her dress with husbandly love, both tentative and excited about what was to come... Brian had finished and she had turned to face him, seeing the devotion and nervousness in his eyes and feeling her heart would burst with gratitude. It took her completely by surprise when he held out two tickets, HIS tickets, to Miami. The trip he had been anticipating, he was giving it to her. Lindsey had stared at him, and Brian had shuffled in shyness: it was a hard and rare thing he was doing; not just giving up his holiday, but showing her he cared, letting her see the selflessness, making himself vulnerable. And she was so taken aback by his generosity that she refused outright; pushing the tickets back into is hands and peering into his downcast eyes, which had finally raised to meet hers. God, she loved this man so much. When he had kissed her in farewell; a chaste but lingering kiss, burning with all the memories, all the possibilities, all the certainties, she had felt tears welling but swallowed them quickly. Brian had always spoken more with his actions than with words. _

Debbie was predictably hysterical during her nuptial preparations. Emmett had found a wonderful dress, flamboyant and colorful, and when Debbie had put it on the whole company had drawn in it's collective breath. It was a pale pastel blue, with a plunging V neck and straps studded with deep blue jewels which brought out her eyes. The skirt however was layered, the lower layers being a sophisticated pastel green, mirroring the shade of the material that covered the breast like a high bodice. With Debbie's silver bob combed down and decorated with a pastel green band, she looked stunning and was actually speechless when she saw herself in a mirror. Emmett had dressed Carl in a navy suit and pastel green tie, and had decorated the rented chapel room with bright green branches and pale blue peonies, along with yellow and pink piccolas. Lindsey knew that Brian would turn up at the last minute with Gus, having not made a sufficient excuse to avoid the soppiness, so she called him.

"Brian?"

"That's me"

"It's Lindsey"

"I would never had guessed"

"Look, I want you to make sure Gus is presentable this afternoon, okay?"

"Don't worry. Mom. Your sonny-boy is going to look very butch. I've even started to shave..."

"BRIAN!"

"Okay, okay, keep your knickers on. We will NOT turn up in leather."

Lindsey laughed then smiled to herself. "Okay Dad, love you, see you later."

"Later."

The ceremony was joyful and full of laughter. Debbie countered everyone's expectations and just smiled the whole time but Michael, with JR on his lap, cried and needed to be handed tissues by Ben. Emmett had surpassed himself with the decorations; the pale gauze silks that hung from the windows fluttered in the breeze as they stood around afterwards nibbling at the buffet and laughing together. Brian brought Gus in his mini beige suit, with shiny little shoes and his hair, which was becoming dangerously close in color to Brian's, combed and neat. Lindsey sucked in her breath when she saw Brian; she was always surprised how well he scrubbed up. With a dark grey suit and blue tie, her friend looked dashing, sophisticated and aristocratic; quite opposite to the tousled rebel in the wife-beater top and jeans hung sexily from his hips. He saw her across the hall and smiled, walking over to her with Gus trotting behind and pecked her on the cheek with a fond but mischievous look. Lindsey felt so good to be home, and wondered whether she should tell him of her and Mel's latest conclusion: that it was no friendlier in Canada after all, despite the different laws, and that without their friends to support them they felt lonely and twice as victimized. That they were moving back to Pittsburgh... soon. She decided not to tell him, not yet, and contented herself with complimenting Gus's turnout and causing Brian to roll his eyes and laugh.

Debbie was jubilant, but at one point that afternoon she grew sad.

"If only Sunshine could have been here!" She said to Jennifer who smiled understandingly and explained about Justin's latest success and the obligations it entailed, which kept him very busy. Brian overheard and looked down, pursing his lips.

Debbie continued, "It is so exciting that our little Sunshine is becoming a famous artist! I always said he would be the next Andy Warhol, didn't I? Soon it'll be the Louvre!", provoking a rush of laughter which was carried up on the warm air to the gilded ceiling of the hall, bedecked with blue and green silks, where a pastel spring butterfly fluttered up and around the happy gathering before dodging out an open window and into the warm sky beyond.

***

New York

JUSTIN:

I nearly dropped my brush in shock, smudging the painting I was working on, when there came a frantic banging on my door. So loud, so desperate was it, that thoughts of fire and emergency fled through my mind and I got up quickly, wiping my hands on my apron and crossing hurriedly over the door, flinging it open to find... Mr Olsen, flushed, panting holding a big black briefcase, with a huge grin spread across his face. I put my hand to my chest.

"Jesus, you scared me. I thought perhaps..."

"Never mind that!" He gasped, pushing past me into my flat and crossing to my table and chairs, flinging his briefcase down on the tabletop before flinging himself into one of the chairs. Never had I seen him so ruffled. Cautiously I followed him in and made my way to my kitchen to get two glasses of liquor. He paid no attention to me and just continued to gush:

"You will never guess what!"

"No, I don't suppose I will."

"It is unbelievable! You will be famous! We will be rich!"

"What is it?" I came and sat down opposite him, pushing his glass over to him before crossing my arms over my chest. He glanced at the drink, glanced at me, took a gulp and leaned forward in his chair.

"The unthinkable has happened, Mr Taylor! You have won it!"

"Won what?"

"What do you think, young man? The NEW YORK LIECHTENSTEIN ART AWARD!"

I stared at him, my glass frozen in my hand. First Mr. Farthinstoke, then the solo show, now this? It seemed that someone or something was favoring me. I said this to Mr. Olsen and he stood up indignantly.

"You don't give yourself enough credit my man! It is YOUR TALENT that has got you this far, and yours alone! You have shown all those dogmatic suckers what you are capable of! And you have also shown all those critical homophobes that gay artists are not talentless or vulgar or offensive! You have won the fucking Liechtenstein Prize, you fucking asshole!"

He clapped me on the back, spilling my drink, but I was too shocked to care. My mind was exploding with ideas and disbelief; my incredulity must have shown on my face because Mr. Olsen whisked me off for dinner to celebrate.

A couple of weeks after that I attended the award ceremony, packed with hundreds of artists and critics, all commending me. Boiling inside my tuxedo and feeling my legs shaking, I spied Logan's ecstatic face in the crowd and grinned back. Walking up to the platform. Receiving the glass sculpture, a sudden heavy cold weight in my hand. Shaking the presenter's hand, sweaty palms. The evening turned into a blur as I was approached, applauded, congratulated, complimented. The award came with a hefty prize: 10,000 dollars, and once news of my achievement reached the ears of the press and the arty bourgeois community in New York, my paintings started selling at an alarming rate. Mr Olsen came to my apartment one day to inform me, with a grave face but excitement twitching the corners of his mouth, that I was on my way to becoming rich. Having been raising the value of my paintings and consulting with his accountant, he confirmed that I now was able to start making a name for myself outside of New York. The demand for more pieces was growing every day; the Gagosian Gallery had requested a show and the Museum of Modern Art was showing certain interest. Mr. Olsen was practically hovering off the ground as he stared at me.

"Certainly, Justin, You are truly a REMARKABLE young man!"

***

Pittsburgh

Brian decided he needed a vacation. His doctor had decided to put the radiotherapy on a break for 2 weeks, fuck knows why, and Brian felt he could not stand to stay in the Pitts one day longer, with Mikey turning up unannounced at his apartment EVERY DAY, bearing more food than anyone could reasonably eat, and fussing about Brian losing weight. So he quietly booked a flight to Sydney, reasoning that he had never got to go before, and packed his bags, telling a distraught Mikey that he was FINE and would tie him from the ceiling by his balls if he tried to stop him. In truth he was not so fine, and he knew it. Some days, the pain had started to get the better of him, and the pills they prescribed made him frequently groggy. Thank god he had managed to hide these things from Mikey, otherwise he would NEVER leave his fucking side. God. Brian screwed up his eyes and shoved his hands into his back jeans pockets at the thought. His mother's saviour. And, she thought, his punisher. What if she was right? Well fuck her. She chose God over her son, and made it very clear why. Brian was selfish, insubordinate, untrustworthy, disgusting and condemned in her eyes. A person unfit for her society, the son she was ashamed of, the heartless sinner who was punished for his deeds. Brian blinked his eyes hard and looked up at the ceiling, letting a sigh out through his teeth. Fuck her. He never needed her love anyway. And there was no fucking reason to tell her. Not yet anyway.

Sydney was everything Brian had expected it to be; hot, bright, full of gorgeous men and sexuality charged. Palm trees lined the hot dusty streets in a neon nighttime glow, and guys with drawling Australian accents hung from railings, chatting with other visitors and flexing their perfectly toned muscles with festive abandon. Yet Brian was unable to enjoy it fully. When he was unwilling to take a trick to his hotel, he told himself that it was because he felt too exhausted, too drained to fuck. But he knew it was really because the rich swirl of male flesh meant nothing to him anymore, because it was not who he wanted.

_Pale lithe body twisting in gentle illumination, blue eyes burning with understanding, making Brian feel so exposed and yet so loved at the same time. Fine strong jawline covered by soft skin, faint brush of stubble against his palm. Silky full lips opening in a gasp, or against his own, bruising, caressing, igniting. Strong milky hands grasping a poised pencil, or held in his, or stroking his body, tracing unintelligible patterns. Blonde hair slightly stiff with gel, grasped gently in his hand, tousled in the mornings. And the smile, the million-watt smile that lit up a room and made Brian's heart leap in his chest. Truly, it was a curse to know someone this well and to love them this much. _

***

End of Chapter 5


	6. Chapter 6

**606 - One feeling (Chapter 6)**

*4 months later* September 2006

_One word is too often profaned_

_For me to profane it;_

_One feeling too falsely disdained_

_For thee to disdain it._

_- Shelley _

New York

JUSTIN:

Using the money I had earned from recent purchases of my paintings, and the prize money, I had bought myself a car: a silver BMW Z4. It was my pride and joy. Unused to splashing out on extravagances, it took me awhile to adjust to the flashy little vehicle, but soon I was zipping around Manhattan with glee. The car, as well as being incredibly useful in getting me to the new studio I had rented (my apartment had become too small for my growing enterprise), had made me finally feel part of the fast-paced New York society. Made me feel independent. It was almost a 'rite of passage' as Vic would have said, proving to the world that I was successful, and finally my own man. Logan and I would sprawl in it as we drove down Park Avenue, yellow-eyed streetlights glinting off the sleek side of the car and the evening breeze blowing fresh in our hair. Life was good, I felt. Pushing down regret at missing Deb's wedding, and the chocking fear that the sound of Brian's voice was becoming a foggy memory, I focused on my art, producing energetic paintings on no theme in particular.

But one day in late summer, I had realized that ignoring the demons was no longer an option. Logan was at my flat; we were slightly but happily tipsy. After chatting for a while; about my show at the Museum of Modern Art, about one of his friends who had been mugged in the red-light district; he stood up and began slowly peeling of his clothes. I sat back and laughed, watching as he pulled his shirt up over his head, revealing bunched-up pecs. This was good, this took away all other thought.

Logan had came forward smiling, his trousers still on, and pulled me up by my arms, leading me over to the bed. I had grinned and then gasped as he pushed me down onto the mattress. Usually I was the dominant one, and seeing him this eager was sweet. But soon all thoughts had left my head as he ran his hands up inside my t-shirt and I lost myself to the sensation. His fingers were cool on my hot skin, and the feel of the soft tips brushing over the downy hair just below my navel was bliss. I had let him pull my top over my head as he had done, before sitting up to meet his mouth. Our kisses were sloppy and somewhat awkward; his mouth had covered mine, hungry, taking without giving back. His tongue was hot and his breath smelled slightly, but I kissed him back because this, just this, the physical sensation, was all I needed right now. However, I could not help but remember how different Brian's kisses had been.

_He had used kisses like words, speaking all the unsaid things between us. His lips were soft, so soft, and the gentle click of our teeth as we connected had turned me on so much. Five years of kissing him and I knew his mouth, like the rest of him, so well. The way his little vampire tooth pointed out slightly, almost imperceptibly. The voluptuous swell of his lips... truly he had the most beautiful lips of any man I know. The way he would kiss me sometimes hard, desperate, when I welcomed it; our passion mingling without explanation or rationalization, our limbs tangling together... his confident seduction, when he licked my lips and made me shudder, when he stuck his tongue in my unsuspecting mouth and held me still, made me grasp, trying to bring his head closer to mine...closer and closer and closer. And yet he had always been aware of my needs, listened with his mouth, moved with me. And there had been the times his kissed me gently, oh so slowly. Those had been some of the best times; the easy relaxed kisses that whispered so much: I love you I love you I love you. The feather soft kisses after I had suffered a nightmare, as if he were afraid I would break; when I could just close my eyes and nestle my head against his chest and feel the gentle pressure of his lips upon my hair._

Logan had removed his pants and was tugging on mine, an elfish grin on his face. His mousey hair was tousled; it had grown in the couple of months we had known each other and was now long and shaggy. His cheeks were flushed and I had felt my own cock growing hard from looking at him and anticipating what we would do next. Usually I fucked him, and I had let him fuck me a couple of times, but now he lay back and looked at me expectantly, his member standing upright, engorged, waiting. I had glanced up at him. "You want me to suck you off?" He had licked his lips, and nodded, eyes glinting. So I moved my attention back down to his cock. It was a good size, not quite as big as Brian's or mine, but thick and puerile. It was now a dark color and very hard, and so I tried to forget about how much it made me miss Brian and slowly closed my fingers around the shaft. It was hot, and the skin was slightly wrinkled and I had started moving my hand up and down in a lazy motion. Logan groaned, and I licked my lips. It wasn't that I didn't like giving head, in fact I loved it: It turned me on unfailingly. It was just that it always hit home when I sucked dick now, how different it had been with Brian.

_One cannot describe the feeling of loving someone so much, adoring every inch of their bodies; it is overwhelming, it feels like your every pore is crying out to connect, to touch, to please them. That kind of love is so powerful it almost hurts. And when I gave Brian head, there was that pulsating emotion; memories of all we had been through flashing in the air around like so many glittering arrows. And I knew his cock so well and found it so goddamn beautiful... not because it was perfect, for it wasn't, but because it was HIS._ The jarring LACK of intimacy now always hit me hard: With men I did not know, did not care for, sucking their dicks was an effort and sometimes disgusted me.

But I closed my mouth over Logan's erection, covering my teeth with my lips and beginning the pulling motion with a slight twist, judging by his gasp and the way he clutched at the sheets that I had done the right thing. Closing my mind to the memories that hovered, threatening to crash into my mind and render me helpless to feelings, I concentrated on licking and sucking, bringing him to the edge. After a while he stared panting and I could feel a sweat break out on his lover abdomen. I continued to tease the head of his penis, running my tongue around beneath the hood, before finally making the decision to deep throat him. It was not that hard, as he was fairly short, but I could only bear to hold it for a few seconds before pulling off. He grabbed at my head, and I went back to give him more. He was near climax and I continued, mercilessly, drawing an evil pleasure in having so much control of another person, but then I felt his balls tightening and he grabbed my head. "Swallow me" he gasped and I panicked.

_I had swallowed other men's come before: It was not a taboo subject for me, yet the thought of swallowing someone's jizz that was not Brian disgusted me. It was a new level of intimacy, and new level of trust that I had only ever reached with him. And fuck, did I love to swallow Brian. The taste of him sent shivers down my spine and I relished the feeling of his hands clutching at my hair as I swallowed around his cock. I had sucked Brian off, god, it must be thousands of times, and every time I adored feeling his come in my mouth, bitter-sweet and so... him. God, I had loved it. Had striven to make him shoot in my mouth when he hadn't intended to, just because I wanted the ultimate closeness, the slightly lewd coupling that would show him how much I loved and trusted him. _

But with Logan... I couldn't. Not because I did not like or trust him, he was a nice man and very sweet, but because I suddenly could not bear to allow that kind of intimacy with anyone but Brian. Logan's come seemed to me suddenly alien and disgusting, and I did not want it anywhere near my mouth. So, even though his hands sought to keep me where I was, I pulled off, and finished him with my hand, fighting to keep myself from retching when he shot over my duvet. I could feel the tension in my hand which started whenever I was off-balance or under stress, and when Logan sat up to look at me I avoided his eyes.

"Why didn't you finish it?" He asked, hands reaching for a towel to clean himself up, eyes boring into me.

My mouth was dry. "I don't know..."

"Was it just me? Don't you like me?"

"No, it's not that, Logan. I just… I can't explain."

He was sitting up now. "That's okay. If it's not me, how about trying again next time?"

My head snapped up. "No."

"What?"

I looked at his puzzled brown eyes, darkened with a hint of annoyance, the smell of his come hanging around us and repulsing me. "I'd just rather not."

"Have you done it before?"

I forced a laugh "Of course!"

"With whom?"

"With my partner in Pittsburgh".

"So what's wrong with me?"

I paused. I couldn't take this anymore. "You're not him."

Logan had glared at me, before standing up abruptly and pulling on is clothes. I sat on my ruffled bed and watched as he roughly gathered together his things and headed for the door, pausing to spit out: "You know, you may be hot, but you are not even that good a fuck. I don't know why I stayed with you for so long!"

I didn't know either. In the big bustling empty world of New York, I guess it was something to pass the time. Until what? I sighed angrily, brushing away the tears that squeezed out between my eyelids, and slowly pulling on my clothes. I REALLY had to stop living like I was going to go back to Brian, like my life was just a vacation until I could see him again.

***

Pittsburgh

Michael could feel his heart thumping in his chest as he made his way to Brian's loft. His friend had not turned up at Babylon that night to celebrate the arrival of Mel and Linds, who had moved back to Pittsburgh. Michael felt like his head would burst from the stress, the anger, the effort of holding in his worry, holding back the secret he promised he would keep for Brian until it was unavoidable. He had laughed with the others, made up some flimsy excuse for Brian when they had asked where he was, and then excused himself and hurried to the loft. Walking quickly along the lamp-lit pavement, he cursed himself, cursed Brian for wanting to keep his sickness quiet until absolutely necessary. But he understood it too. He knew how Brian hated to be pitied, and as long as the others didn't know, he could continue to live an approximation of a normal life, and fool himself. Thoughts and images flashed through Michael's brain: Why had Brian not arrived? Had he forgotten? Did he have treatment today? Finally he reached the loft and took the stairs two at a time, reaching the huge grey expanse of Brian's door and banging on it with his fist.

_What do you do when the one person who you have looked up to all your life, who has always been the leader, the strong one, your supporter, is reduced to a disease? When the possibility that he may not last the year sears into your brain, however hard you try to ignore it. Michael had lain awake at night, unable to tell Ben what was wrong, thinking about his friend. Daring, sexy, beautiful Brian. Michael knew it was cliché, but he found himself thinking: Why him? Why Brian? Why not some decrepit old man who was ready to go? To watch Brian, who was so full of vitality, had so much going for him, become gradually paler, and loose muscle tone, although he insisted on continuing to visit the gym, was heart-breaking. Michael tried not to think about himself, but he could not help it and had premonitions of doom and of being left alone. Life was so unfair. But then he thought of Brian and he felt even worse. Michael could not even begin to imagine what it must be like to be dying, fighting a cruel disease within your own body, passed on to you by your father. Michael pictured Brian's face that first day he had seen him, had lost his heart to the lean boy with the dark shock of hair who was introduced to his class. Even then, Brian had emanated a keen intelligence, and Mikey had been drawn to his tortured personality as well as his physical beauty. _

_The first time Brian had asked if he could sleep over, Mikey had known it was because of his father. He had picked up snippets of information by things Brian had casually let slip, pretending not to care, and his heart had ached for his friend, trying so hard to hide the bruises on his arms and refusing to acknowledge the pain. They had lain in the dark comfortable silence of his room, listening to the faint sounds of Debbie clearing up dinner downstairs, and Mikey had peeked over at the silhouette of his friend, whose face was turned to the black ceiling. He had made out the straight bridge of Brian's nose, but couldn't see whether his eyes ere open or not. After that Brian had slept over often and Debbie had been slightly bemused by his constant presence. If she knew why he comes here, Mickey had thought, she wouldn't be half so judgmental. _

_One day, when he was 15, Mikey was woken from his sleep by a sharp *crack* at the window. He lay with baited breath until it came again, like someone was throwing a hard object at the glass. He hurriedly got up and padded over, pulling up the blinds and looking down at the moonlit figure of Brian, standing like a forgotten waif, another pebble ready in his hand. After Mikey had tiptoed downstairs and let him in, he saw that his friend had a bleeding black eye and a cut lip. Mikey bit his tongue, knowing that Brian did not like talking about it, and led him to the bathroom where he could clean himself up. Later that night, as he saw Brian fall into a fitful sleep, his long lashes flickering uneasily, Mikey had wished he could find the right words to re-assure him, to make it all better, to tell him he was loved. If not in his own house then at least in Mikey's. _

There was no answer at the door so Michael slowly slid it aside, unsurprised to find it open. He walked into the huge open space with it's sloping ceiling and polished floors, calling Brian's name. The kitchen was clean and empty, but the kettle was on, nearly at the boil. Brian's briefcase sat by his desk in the corner, and the light above the bed was on, shedding bizarre creamy-white illumination into the apartment. Then he heard a sound coming from the bathroom and hurried up the steps, coming to the doorway of the on-suite. The sight that met his eyes made his breath catch in his throat.

Brian was sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up and his forehead resting on his arms. His face was invisible but Michael could see he was exhausted from the slump of his shoulders. Michael wondered how he could have missed how ill Brian looked: He had refused to let Mikey come and care for him, or take him to hospital appointments, but now Michael could see that his shoulders were angular, and the bones of his neck where his head was bent down stuck out like rounded spines. Michael dropped to his knees in front of his friend, and tentatively put out a hand to rest on Brian's knee, prompting the other to look up and smile weakly.

"I figured you would come in eventually. It seems nothing can keep you out."

"What the fuck happened to you, Brian?"

Brian swallowed, and Michael had to fight the urge to just throw his arms around him, hold him tight, never let him go. Protect Brian like Brian had protected him all those years, fight away the demons with his bare fists. But instead he gazed at Brian's face, kicking himself for not noticing how hollow his cheeks had become and how his skin was almost bloodless, his eyes huge and dark in his pale face. Brian sighed, and shifted a little on the cold hard tiles of the floor.

"I'm just having a bad day, that's all. They nuked me again yesterday and I think I have a slight case of radiation poisoning." He finished with a hint of sarcasm.

Mikey was about to say something sympathetic when Brian pushed past him, lurching to the toilet and retching, his knuckles white as he gripped the toilet seat. Michael's hand came up to his mouth and he felt the tears come to his eyes as he watched the suffering before him. He felt completely helpless and he was angry. Angry that he had to see Brian, whose body had always been so sleek and beautiful, become racked with sickness, reduced to the stereotype of an emaciated cancer patient. Brian Kinney was supposed to be immortal, goddamnit. Michael did not have words strong enough to express the feelings that coursed through him as he watched his friend's heaving back, spine showing slightly through the plain white T-shirt.

Mikey looked back to the kitchen. "You haven't eaten anything, you've got nothing to throw up."

After a minute Brian turned around, giving a bitter laugh as he closed the toilet seat. "Try telling my stomach that."

"Do you want something to drink?"

"Yeah, some mint tea, the kettle is on."

Later, they sat in the living room area, curled up on the sofa, and Brian told Michael that they were planning to operate. Soon.

"They've started pre-operative chemotherapy" he said, looking into his cup. "And let me tell you, Mikey, radiation is NOTHING to how you feel after they have pumped what could be the entire contents of the radioactive sewer into you. Its... Fucking shitty." He chuckled sullenly. "Just promise me you will find me a nice wig when my hair falls out - and NOT one of Deb's!"

Michael stared at him, knowing that Brian was trying to make light of a terrible situation. He leaned over and grasped Brian's hand.

"You're not going to loose your hair, you hear me? You WILL get better from this, because you are a fighter." He peered at Brian, who was staring at the coffee table, his face expressionless. "Look at me. Hell, you are the strongest person I know. You can always pull it off. You are Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake!" Mikey smiled a little at the old words as he said them, before the gravity of the situation hit him and he fell silent. Brian put his arm around Mikey's neck for a minute and then pushed him away.

"Go on, get back to the party, they'll be wondering where you are."

"You don't need me here?"

"I'm fine, Mikey, I'm feeling better now. Just go and send my apologies, and congratulations, and whatever the fuck else they want to hear."

So reluctantly Mikey left him; after arranging a pot of soup he picked up his things and headed out. When he got to the door and had slid it open, he turned and looked at Brian, who was sitting on the couch and looking through his huge window over Pittsburgh, and Michael was struck by how empty the apartment looked. Faint sounds of traffic permeated the stillness and ethereal lights from outside shone through the gauze curtains. The floor gaped wide, shining yet missing something, the bed seemed huge and irrelevant in the centre, the kitchen was unused and lonely. Mikey knew what was missing, and let out his breath sadly, before closing the door and heading down, back out in the night.

***

New York

JUSTIN:

Bleep bleep. An email.

_Hiya there!_

_Greetings from Pittsburgh! We are all doing well over here - you have heard that Mel and Linds have moved back *Hooray!* and we are all very happy to have them amongst us again. I know Brian is pleased to see more of Gus too, even though he will never admit it!_

_Now, to the reason for my email: I am going to be coming to fabulous New York for a weekend, my dearest painter! Have been asked to organize a wedding and need to check out the venue myself *sigh*. Anyway, was wondering whether you still remember your old friends down in the humble Pitts and would like to meet up with me, possibly even let me stay in your apartment? Of course, no pressure dearest. If your answer is 'yes' to the above, we shall have a fantastic time- Debbie is already threatening to load me up with food to bring you! If not, of course don't worry. I understand that as a prolific painter you must be very busy, but I WOULD love to come and ambush you for a while!_

_All the best, _

_Emmett_

_x_

I grinned as I recognized the old queen enthusiasm that I had so missed, and immediately sent back an email confirming that Emmett WOULD be staying with me, with no argument, and to prepare himself to be shown Manhattan on the weekend of his stay. It arrived fairly quickly. I drove the Z4 to the airport to pick him up and spotted him standing by the pick-up area. Indeed he was hard to miss, in bright orange jeans and a blue stripy top, his hair streaked with highlights and holding a huge pink suitcase. I stifled a laugh as I pulled up alongside other cars and waved. He did not see me. Rather his eyes skimmed over me, and the other waving people in cars. I waited and then got out of the car, standing, holding the door open, until I caught his eye. His mouth dropped open as he recognized me, and he literally bolted over before leaping into my arms.

"Oh my God! Honey, I didn't recognize you! You look so... I don't know how to describe it!"

I laughed. "Successful? Handsome? Independent? Famous?"

"That's it! Oh sweetie you look fabulous! And WHAT A CAR! You are quite the gentleman now! This is unbelievable! And I didn't think you could get more beautiful!"

We drove back in companionable silence and spent the weekend cruising round the gay bars; Emmett was awestruck by the New York men.

"Oh my god, Justin!" He exclaimed, "How do you resist? If it were me I wouldn't find time for anything else! I'd be addicted to the men!"

I didn't tell him how relieved I was to see an old face, how refreshing his enthusiasm had been in contrast to the stuffy connections I had made in Manhattan. We lounged in my apartment and I asked about back home, laughing at the latest stories and promising to come and visit when there was a break in the onslaught of commissions and shows. When he went back, leaving me with bags of cookies from Debbie, I went out alone to the clubs, wanting to fuck my brains out and get blindingly, dizzily, obliviously drunk.

***

Pittsburgh

Debbie cornered Michael when he came round to collect some home-made brownies. Knowing her son better than anyone else, she could sense when something was wrong, And so she had sent Carl away on an errand, and stood in front of Michael.

"So, are you going to tell me what's wrong?" She demanded, hands on hips, chewing on her gum. (Some habits die hard) "Or am I just going to have to guess?"

Michael shifted to the other foot and turned away, busying himself with packing away the brownies into a plastic tub. But Debbie would not give up that easily.

"Hey, I'm talking to you! Since when do you have the right to ignore your mother?"

Brown eyes slowly raised to meet her flaring blue ones. Michael stood still for a moment and then he sighed, clicking the lid on the tub and leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms across his chest. He knew he could not withhold it any longer. And to be truthful he didn't fucking want to. Debbie waited and finally Michael spoke, deciding that it was best to just take the plunge and have it over with.

"Brian's sick."

He watched the tiny changes in Debbie's face which registered when she was scared or upset or shocked. After a pause she spoke in a small voice; "How sick? ...What's wrong? ...Is it..."

"No, it's not AIDS." Michael swallowed. "It's the cancer. It's... come back."

Debbie raised her hand to her chest as she gasped in a breath, and then her face crumpled. Michael could see the tears welling in her eyes and wished he had an easier way to tell her. But there was no way to pad the hard edges of the truth. Debbie wanted the details and Michael dazedly told her what he knew and elicited her secrecy, apprising her that Brian didn't want anyone to know for the time being. She was understandably furious that Michael had known for months and not notified her before, but then she was just overcome with pity and worry for Brian. Bustling around the kitchen, starting to cook soup and other foods for him, she drowned her fears in activity. Michael left her to go up to his room, where he sat in stunned silence for a while, before lying down on his bed and crying silently into his pillow.

***

BRIAN:

Brian sat at his computer, staring at the screen. Kinnetik was highly successful, which meant more fucking paperwork for him to do. Great. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and blinked his eyes, trying to concentrate on the numbers on the monitor. This was a good day, but hell, he still did not want to concentrate on fucking math... wasn't that what his accountant was for anyway? Suddenly there came a quiet knock on the door. Brian frowned; it couldn't be Mikey, because Mikey always banged on the door, never knocked, and he wasn't expecting any visitors. It came again, and Brian got up and hauled open the sliding gate, blinking to find Debbie on the other side, smiling and holding a whopping casket of food.

She pushed her way in and Brian found himself smiling. "You know, I'm not housing the entire American army in my flat, much as I'd like to." He said, following her to the kitchen and leaning against the beam as she set it down. "There is no way any normal human being could eat all that."

Debbie grinned. "Well, you know me, I'm Italian. Its in my genes to cook too much food and then try to force people to eat it! Say... do you have a joint?"

Brian laughed and pushed the pot over to her. After helping herself, she went to sit at the table and he followed her, watching as she drew thoughtfully on the spliff.

"You know, you may be developing quite an addiction to that stuff. And me." Brian added with mock exasperation. But Debbie did not reply. She puffed away, cocked her head and then turned to look at him out of the corner of her eye; "So, when were you gonna tell me?"

Brian felt his heart sink. He didn't even try to act naive. "When I had to."

"You mean when they tell you that you have 3 weeks to live and to write your fucking will?"

Brian fiddled with the tablecloth before raising his head to look Debbie in the eye.

"Well it beats the hell out of being pitied and mollycoddled to death. They don't think it's terminal anyway." He sighed. "I'm going in for the op in two weeks and they say that if they can continue to fry me with radiation and poison me with chemo I stand a good chance." He let out a short laugh. "Bit of an oxymoron huh?"

He felt helpless suddenly. He was too fucking tired to care whether Debbie knew. Too tired to care about being pitied. Too tired to fight to maintain his flawless image. And he was grateful, in a strange way, when Debbie stood up, came around the table and grasped him in a hug, crushing his head to her bosom. Kissing his hair and stroking it like a child's. Whispering reassurances into the still apartment. Later, after she had released him, she sat back down and stared at him until he met her eye, and he knew he was in for a lecture.

"You are a fucking stubborn little shit, you know that?" She said, voice chocking slightly. "You refuse to let anyone care for you, to see what's underneath the shell. And the only reason Sunshine got through is because he is such a persistent little hero and put up with all your shit before you finally let him in. Why is that? Why must you always insist on doing things on your own, on refusing help. Why do you make yourself into an island?"

She paused a minute, and Brian stayed silent, knowing she was not finished.

"I'll tell you why it is. Its because you are afraid of being hurt. You're afraid that if you admit yourself to be vulnerable, you will be able to feel pain that you deny. As long as you are Mr-I'm-fucking-immune-to-humanity you are safe. Well, I'm sorry to break it to you honey, but you're not fooling anyone. Your actions give you away."

Brian looked at her at this point and Debbie reached out a hand to cover his on the table. "I've seen you sacrifice everything for your friends. I've seen you put your heart on the line for another's happiness. I've seen you caring for another so tenderly. So why not quit the tough-guy routine, huh? And let your friends in. I'm not going to tell them, (although you have my sworn promise that I WILL if I see fit) but I think you better think long and hard about whether YOU want to tell them. Whether they would want to know."

After a while she left and Brian stood alone in his empty apartment, swallowing the inexplicable anger and sadness that washed over him. He briefly thought of Justin, gentle blue eyes fixed on his as they lay companionably side-by-side on the rug, but pushed the images away when they caused his throat to tighten and his chest to hitch. Justin was now in New York, enjoying the well-earned success that Lindsey had been so sure he deserved. He was probably at a posh arty dinner or painting in a fabulous studio that very moment, hair messy and covered in paint, eyes shining with a feverish creative light as they always did when he was stuck in a painting. Brian turned on his heel and strode over to the counter, pouring himself a glass of water, he was unsure he could stomach anything else, and then stood in the centre of the floor, sipping it and fighting off the overpowering realization that he still loved Justin more than life itself.

***

New York

JUSTIN:

I stood back from the massive canvas and stretched my neck, looking around my spacious studio. I rented it from a gracious lady who had leased it to artists for decades. It was huge, as big as Brian's loft, and had massive skylights in the roof which let cascades of light tumble down onto the concrete floor. As my projects became larger and more ambitious I appreciated the extra room it afforded me; I had thrown myself into my work since my break with Logan and found myself painting on themes, trying to express myself, change people's minds, through the sheer energy of my work. The painting which now stared back at me across the floor was of a young man.

_Beautiful beyond compare, with sleek muscles and shining hair, he is sprawled casually beside a pool. Beside, above and below him are silhouettes, repetitions of his form which flares with bright oranges and reds. Unlike him, they are not composed, rather wild, and flailing, one reaching up to the heavens, one peering into the glimmering silver of a pool, one chained and straining out of the water. It is Narcissus._

After commission from a collector, I had agreed to create the massive work and had spent a night researching and reading, intruiged by the tale: Narcissus, in Greek Mythology, was a hero from Thespiae who was renowned for his beauty. Disdaining those who love him, he falls in love with his reflection in a pool, not realizing it was his own, and perishes there, unable to leave the beauty of his own reflection. I had snorted as I thought back over all the pec implants and shaved chests in the gay clubs of New York and Pittsburgh; truly if there is anyone to have a narcissus complex, it's a fag. And yet... and yet... As beautiful as a buffed-up body is, I had not lied when I told Debbie and the others in the diner that Hollywood's hunks had become boring. Perfection IS boring, especially when it is engineered.

My mind naturally dragged me back, and I thought of Brian's body._ It was not perfect, not by a long shot, but love is not about that. I had learnt, memorized, every inch of him, loved every inch of him, not because it was perfect but because it was HIM. Of course I had drooled over his physical beauty when I first saw him, but after a while I had learnt the little flaws, and loved him for them. How he had a few fine hairs around his nipples, and in the centre of his chest; how his eyes were no pure color, rather an explosive mix of hazel and green mingling and changing in different light; how his hair, at the back above his collar, never lay flat however much he wanted it to; how his lips became chapped in the cold winter weather; how he had a gentle dusting of hair between his brows, almost imperceptible to the eyes but soft to the lips. To know someone so well is not a turn off, as is so often assumed, but a huge stimulation. To be familiar with every movement he made, to know the exact spots which made him gasp. And to know that he was imperfect underneath the cocky front, to hear the little hitch in his breath when he wanted to groan but wouldn't let himself, to watch him learn to trust me over the years, to let me in. _

_The afternoon I had come back from campaigning against Stockwell to find him standing in his loft, arms folded across his chest, watching as removal men emptied it of his possessions, I had been nonplussed. I knew he had lost his job, but did not think his lifestyle was decadent enough to merit his things being repossessed. I had gone over to him, tried to take his arm in mine, tried to understand why he was selling his painting, and his TV, and his designer table. He had turned, looking me in the eye with an expression close to amusement. Revealed that he had paid for the anti-Stockwell commercial out of his own pocket. And I had loved him so much, suddenly, in that absurd moment, because he had finally proven what I knew all along: That he cared. That he may have acted like a callous prick, but he really had the biggest heart of anyone I knew. He just did not like to take the credit for it. I had chuckled as he had gazed at me and said "I think I'm experiencing possession withdrawal. I need to lie down." Then I had followed him to the bed where he had thrown himself down, still managing to look sexy, and I had lain beside him and kissed him. He had been passive that night, as I gave him an intense blow-job then gently topped him. I wanted to show him my thanks, show him my fierce pride in him, my awe that he had sacrificed everything for the cause. Ladies and gents, meet Brian Kinney: noble saviour of Liberty Avenue. _

Nothing, not even the most gorgeous body in the world, could surpass Brian, for me. Love is irrational, unpredictable, unstoppable, unforgettable, and unconditional. And I knew I still loved him deeply, tried to grasp out at the little memories: the musty rich smell of him after a workout, the way he threw his head back almost in pain as I rode him, the slick feel of his sweaty skin under my fingers, how his hair always fell in his eyes in bed in the mornings, before he had got up and combed it. Truly, perfection is overrated, I thought, as I pulled up my stool and went back to work on the painting, my arm moving with vigor as my brush layered navy onto the base with thick sure strokes.

***

End of Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

**607 - Breathing Low (Chapter 7)**

*1 month later* October 2006

_I arise from dreams of thee_

_In the first sweet sleep of night,_

_When the winds are breathing low,_

_And the stars are shining bright._

_- Shelley_

Splash. Clang. Slosh. Clink. Scrub. Debbie hummed to herself as she did the dishes. Michael watched his mother's bangled hands dabbling about in the soapy water, sponging the cooking pots from dinner, as he sat absently at the table. After a jolly family meal at the Novotny-Bruckner house, Carl and Ben had taken Hunter outside to play basketball in the misty yellow streetlights, but Michael and Deb had lingered behind, Michael making up some excuse about the freezing cold and getting pneumonia. And so he sat, drawing patterns in spilt salt on the tablecloth with his finger, listening to the tuneless murmured rendition of 'Penny Lane', thinking.

Suddenly Debbie stopped humming and Michael could see her shoulders shift slightly as they did when she became serious. "How is he?" She asked, voice quiet and tentative.

Michael sighed, she did not need to elaborate. "He's tired. He's still recovering from the operation."

He pushed the salt into an angry tight pile and then squashed it with his thumb. They had supposedly removed most of the osteosarcoma bone cancer from Brian's thigh, and were hoping to eradicate the rest with post-operative chemotherapy. Michael bit his lip. In truth Brian was a mess: although he tried to keep his biting humor and fierce independence, Mikey could see he was in a lot of pain, and was frequently too tired to argue. Since they had started intensifying the chemo treatments, Brian's already weakened body struggled to hold up and Mikey worried about him when Brian forced himself to turn up at Babylon, or go into work. What the fuck happened? Mikey thought. What had Brian ever done to deserve this? He felt sick to his stomach with fear.

Debbie interrupted his thoughts by speaking in a low, even voice. "We need to tell Justin, Michael."

When her son said nothing, picked up his glass and took a preoccupied swig, she continued, looking down at the dishes she was still holding. "I know it seems unnecessary to give Sunshine a reason to worry, and I know he has important engagements right now in New York. But I think, deep down inside, you know as well as I do that those two loved each other too deeply to just forget everything and move on..." Her voice hitched and she put a hand to her chest as she concentrated on the dishwater, her back to Michael. "He's fading, sweetie."

Her son stood up abruptly and slammed his glass down on the table from where he had been holding it to his lips. "Don't you dare start with prophecies of doom, Mom. All that time Vic was sick, did you ever talk about him as if he were a lost cause?" His mind was whirring, screaming, but he stood still and glared at her leopard-print back.

But Deb just turned around slowly, facing him and keeping a level gaze. "Justin needs to know, Honey."

Later that evening when his Mom and Carl had driven home, Michael paced on the landing. Ben was asleep, and the wall clock ticked out methodical seconds as Michael fought off the feelings anger and dismay and trepidation which circled around his legs like devoted cats and crawled up to his chest in thin wisps of black. He knew he was going to tell Justin, he knew his Mom was right as usual, he knew Brian couldn't argue. He knew Justin would be angry, he knew he would feel betrayed, he knew it would confirm that Brian was indeed very sick. He thought back to when his friend had reassured him. _If I get that sick I will tell him. Have no fear._ Michael guessed that this now meant it was finally confirmed. Brian Kinney might die. He fought the urge to drive to Brian's loft and wake him up, shake him, scream at him for being so fucking obdurate, so unselfish, so autonomous. And then he slid down against the wall, feeling the cool plaster against his feverish hand and resting his brow against the comforting hardness, falling gradually into a fitful dream.

_He was standing, standing alone. On a deserted street glittering with caressing rain. Rain which cooled his cheeks as he gazed up towards the black sky, pierced through with glimmering Pittsburgh streetlights. There were no stars in the sky, no stars at all, and Mikey felt momentarily sad that he could not see the stars. The stars which should twinkle down at him and watch over the town. But then he felt a rush and he saw a blaze and down from the sky, down and down and faster and faster came plummeting a spinning shape. Before he knew it he was staring at his old hero, Captain Astro, in all his spandex glory. Eyes flaring, nostrils flaring, cape flaring in the wind which had picked up out of nowhere. Mikey grinned and felt himself pulled up up up with the hero, up high above Pittsburgh. He could see his house, small and insignificant, a dark smudge in a blurred wash of nighttime contours. Then he could see his mother's house, unlit and silent. Everyone slept. But he knew he had to get back, had to phone Justin, had to call the love of Brian's life and tell him Brian was dying. Fight, Fight against crawling reality. Shout, shout in silent screams. Struggle, struggle in ethereal embrace. _

_Suddenly the night was gone, vanished like a changing slide. And he was home, in his garden and Brian sat opposite him. And Mikey was a boy, and Brian was laughing. Grass tickled Mikey's bare legs in his shorts, he stood up and looked down at his young friend. Don't ever grow up Brian. You mustn't. You don't know what awaits you. You must stay naive and healthy, you must. Because I love you. I adore you. I want you. Even now. Mikey turned to his house and saw his mother, a sliding shape, outlined in the bright doorway of his house. Sun smiled down as if nothing were wrong and Mikey gazed up, up, up into it. Daring it to stop shining. Daring it to end their childhoods with its relentless cycle. Flowers misted in his boyish tears. Freeze the moment in the summer garden of youth. Brian looked up, all huge swirling eyes and mischievous grin, and Mikey remembered, grasped at the memory until it was clearer, clearer. Brian, Brian, Brian; laughing as he ran with Mikey, leading the way after playing a trick on a teacher. Reaching across and touching Mikey, blazing hot fingers almost unbearable. Taking Mikey on giddy delinquent adventures. Daredevil, smiling scoundrel, sad boy. Mikey wanted to rise, to block out the sun in it's merciless persistence, and he opened his mouth in horror as the scene changed again, but no sound came out. _

_Night again. Evening of the soul. Playground of the dauntless. Brian in Babylon, young, strong, reckless. Mikey was aware of the presence of another. Captain Astro again, tall, shadowed, silent. Brian's stomach muscles flexed under his sleeveless top as he leaned back into the music. Men swayed around him. Indubitable spirit of fags everywhere flooding the dance floor with sex and thick stalking glances. Tidal waves of unheard sound rolled over Mikey in a noiseless rush. Endless. Please let it be endless. Captain Astro stood behind Mikey and warm hand came down on Mikey's shoulder as he saw a young blonde boy fall into Brian's arms and kiss him before handing him a drink. His stomach tightened in the old sensation of jealousy; Justin, perfect, so right for Brian. But then Brian was suddenly alone. And the lights were vanishing, and Brian was falling, fading, and Mikey struggled to reach him. So important not to let him hit the floor. Wading thought the air as if it were tar. Grabbing at Brian, but his hands went straight through him. Oh God, his hands went straight through him. And Babylon had disappeared and he was in the street and it was raining again, and Brian was struggling with something dark. Something overpowering which struck an icy cold into Mikey's heart and reeked of death. He tried to grab it, but it was untouchable to him, slid like mist through his fingers, and Brian glared at him as Mikey gasped, gulped in air, panicked. Then Brian put out a hand, suddenly solid and hard, and shoved Mikey away. Firmly, angrily, defiantly. As he staggered back on the rough painful road, Mikey saw that Brian was gone and he was standing, standing alone. On a deserted street glittering with caressing rain._

Mikey's eyes opened with a start, and he was unsure whether he had cried out in his sleep. He waited, calming his breathing, listening to see if he had woken Hunter or Ben, then quietly got up, stiff from his awkward position, and looked at the wall clock. It was early in the morning, too late for him to go back to sleep, so he slid his slippers back on and padded downstairs. After getting himself a glass of water and shrugging on a dressing gown, he sat down at the table and gazed at the telephone on the sideboard.

***

New York

JUSTIN:

I was interrupted in my painting by the shrill call of a telephone. I considered not answering it, glancing at my unfinished brush strokes on the rough white canvass, but then I sighed. It was probably Mr. Olsen; he had said he would call to confirm whether I had a booking for a spring show at the Tamarind Art Gallery. So I got up, wiping my hands on my slacks, and walked over to the ringing phone, picking it up and holding it to my ear with my shoulder while I picked up a cloth to better clean my hands.

"Hello?"

"Justin?"

My stomach did a happy flip at the familiar voice and I felt a spreading warmth in my chest. "Michael, is that you?"

"Yes." He did not sound as cheerful as he normally did.

"How are you? When Emmet was here last month he told me about Mel and Linds moving back. You must be really happy to have JR back..."

"Justin!" The sharp edge in his voice pulled me up short and the warmth left me. Fear crept up my back and I took the phone from where it was jammed against my shoulder and held it against my other ear, walking slowly to the centre of the apartment.

"What is it, Michael? What's wrong?" Images of tragedies flashed across my mind: My sister run over, Debbie collapsed in her kitchen, my mother in tears... there was a silence on the other end of the line and I could hear my heart thumping in my chest. And then he took a deep breath.

"It's Brian." I felt my lungs clench in an icy grip. Oh God. The one person I had deliberately not thought of because I knew the anger, the love, the loss, the guilt would overpower me.

I swallowed. "Michael, what's happened? Tell me, quick."

Michael took a deep breath. "He's ... sick again Justin. His ... cancer has come back." And then the words came in a rush, tumbling over each other, chocked, trembling. "He asked me not to tell you because you had important shows in New York, he said he wasn't sick enough to merit worrying anyone, but oh God, Justin, he has got so ill, I hardly recognize him, and I knew you should know, I was just too much of a Goddamn coward to tell you before. And now I'm so scared..." Michael trailed off, obviously fighting back tears.

I stood stock-still in my apartment, paintings suddenly hazy and forgotten. I felt strangely ethereal, as if I were floating, and all parts of me were numb except the thud, thud, thud of my heart. I couldn't feel my fingers holding the phone and couldn't move my eyes, fixed on the misty floor. Oh God. A ringing started in my ears as I fought for breath. Oh God oh God oh God.

"Justin?" His voice cut through to me, an anxious ringing in my ear. "Justin, are you there?"

"Yeah. I'm here." My voice wasn't my own. "How long have you known?"

"Several months." He filled me in briefly with the details in a quavering voice while I stood silently, numb, listening.

"Justin? Are you there?"

"I'm coming to Pittsburgh."

"Justin..."

But I put the phone down on him. The numbness was fading and the onslaught of pain, anger, worry and fear rendered me unable to speak. I placed the phone back on it's cradle and walked over to my still-wet painting, gazing at it before suddenly grabbing it and hurling it at the floor with a strangled cry. That opened something inside me and I sank down to the floor and covered my face with my palms and sobbed. Sobbed for having left Brian, sobbed for having let him think that I no longer cared and had moved on, sobbed for his self-sacrifice, and his suffering. Sobbed for the memory of the man I remembered, healthy, beautiful, defiant. Sobbed for the wretched reality of my life, for the fact I knew I was incomplete without Brian and yet had still battled on, convinced that I would eventually become the person they expected me to be. Sobbed for the times I had forced myself to forget him, to ignore the familiar longing for his arms around me.

Soon I got up and picked up the phone, calling Mr. Olsen and telling him to cancel all appointments and meetings indefinitely, I was going Pittsburgh. Something had come up. No I would not tell him what was wrong, just close my studio, lock it up and make sure the easels were safe. I was going to the airport tomorrow. Yes tomorrow. I have to go. No, I don't know when I will be back. Then I called around, closing up my affairs in a hurried rush of energy, able to momentarily lose myself in the arrangements, but still noticing a quiet thrill at the prospect of going home.

***

Pittsburgh

Lindsey stared out of the window as Mel bustled about in the other room with the kids. They were still mostly living out of boxes in their new home in Pittsburgh, having moved back after admitting that Canada was not right for them. Lindsey pressed the fingers of one hand against her lips as she thought, watching the last Autumn leaves blown from withered trees in the chill October wind. A tear leaked out from beneath her eyelid. Brian had told her. And now she felt a storm of emotions coursing through her: relief that she had returned to Pittsburgh and could be close to Brian; anger that he was so fucking self-depricating that he had not even considered that they would want to know, to care; fear, that she would loose her one true friend, her love, the father of her child. Lindsey sighed and rested her forehead against the cool glass. She had not yet told Mel, and felt strangely alienated from her, given Mel's unconcealed distain and dislike for Brian. Lindsey blanched and her brow furrowed as she remembered all the terrible things her wife had hurled at Brian in the past. _You're a selfish, narcissistic little fucking faggot! The only dick you care about is your own. You are a little fucking coward._ Brian had sometimes acted like an asshole, been standoffish enough to merit Mel's anger, but Lindsey knew that the real reason for her partner's old fury was jealousy. Mel had felt threatened by seeing how much Lindsey cared for Bran, perhaps doubly so when she had found out Lindsey was a bisexual.

"Linds?... Hun?"

Mel's loving voice made Lindsey turn around quickly, feeling the still-cold spot on her forehead where the glass had pressed. Her wife was standing, smiling, in the middle of the room, a pacifier in one hand and a toy in the other.

"I finally got them off to sleep!" She said, putting the toys away and bending down to fold up the toddler carpet. "You know, we really should start thinking about finding a new school for Gus. I mean, it's been a month now." She stopped, looked at the other woman. "Linds, what is wrong with you? Ever since we've come back you have been so pre-occupied..."

"It's nothing." Lindsey's answer came as more of a reflex, protection.

"The fuck it is! You don't take much interest in the kids, you push me away in bed, you have fucking removed yourself from our life, Lindsey! Now I could just go on playing this stupid fucking guessing game or you can tell me why you are not standing up to the bar. Why you are so fucking disinterested."

Lindsey looked into her wife's indignant face. "It's Brian."

Mel gave a short angry laugh. "I should have guessed! The moment we move back to Pittsburgh! All you can fucking do is think about him." She put on a sarcastic sweet voice "Shall we just use the dildo more often sweetie, until your lust for cock is satisfied? Or are you going to pluck up the courage to ask for the real thing? You won't fucking find it with HIM, that's for Goddamn sure..."

Linsey cut her off with a strangled shout. "He's got cancer! He might be fucking dying Mel! And all you can do is think about your own selfish needs..." Her voice trailed off and she watched Mel's face shift from furious, to surprised, to ashamed, to apologetic. Shit, she hadn't meant to tell her yet, and certainly not like this; words spat out in frustration in a row. But they were out, and their reality hung over the room like a heavy crushing fog. Lindsey blinked back yet more tears, and raised her eyes to meet her wife's.

Mel swallowed, and Lindsey was shocked to see that her eyes were filling with tears too. "Oh Linds." Mel said in a quiet voice. "Oh Linds. I'm so sorry." And Lindsey did not have the strength to stay angry with her wife, and let Mel put her arms around her and hold her as the tears finally came.

"Is there anything we can do?" Melanie was concerned, her respect for Brian having grown in the last few years she had known him.

"I don't thinks so. Oh God, Mel, what if...?"

"Shhh honey, don't think about that. We gotta focus on the positive."

"I hate him for being such a long-suffering asshole. God it's so unfair, so fucking unfair!"

"I know Linds. I know."

***

New York

JUSTIN:

My hand shook as I packed my things, shoving clothes haphazardly into my duffel bag. When my wash-kit fell with a crash onto the floor I forced myself to stop, breathing deep and low, holding my twitching palm with my other hand as I willed myself to relax. Memories, like invading phantoms crashed into my brain at every small undertaking.

_Brian would rub this hand for me, just another of the thousand things he did which showed his tenderness, showed me without words that he cared for me. Actions which I was too stubborn and blind and demanding to see... but after the bashing I was in such a terrible place. The slightest things made me jump, and although I tried to act normally and shrug it off, I was changed somehow, altered. My enthusiasm thwarted, my confidence ripped to shreds. And Brian had seen and had come into his own as a carer, despite the fact that he would never acknowledge it. He was patient when I flew into rages, and concerned when I had crippling panic attacks; all that time he comforted me without words or explanations, the only way he knew how. His presence, his lips, his warm skin were my anchor during that hellish period. After regaining my memories and finally accepting him in me I thought the pain would fade, but although I grew stronger and felt more confident during the day, at night the demons would come back. Only then I had nightmares. Nightmares of that night, of blood and searing pain, and of being chased by hostility. I felt so stupid and angry at myself for being affected by these dreams, after all it was only Chris Hobbes with a fucking baseball bat... Nothing scary about that, boys and girls. So why did I wake up screaming, in cold sweats and shaking like a leaf, night after night? Why did I toss and turn in our bed, afraid to fall asleep for the knowledge of what was to come?_

_One night, I had a particularly terrible dream. The fear, the indescribable terror was chocking me, and I flailed my arms, waking Brian up by smacking him across the face. In that instant my own screams woke me up and I sat bolt upright in bed, gasping and trembling. I felt him groggily raise himself to sit up next to me, and forced myself to speak in an even voice._

_"I'm sorry I woke you."_

_His eyes were black in the dark bedroom as he peered into mine. "Are you okay?"_

_"Yeah, I'm fine. It's nothing." I shuddered, wanting with all my soul to scream no, no I am not okay, please do not let me fall asleep again, I beg you. _

_Brian said nothing but I suddenly felt his hand between my quivering shoulder-blades, comforting, rubbing in small circles. The warmth of his skin on mine calmed me and I let out my breath in a whoosh. However, my arm was sill convulsing with the tremors that ran through the muscles, a visual indicator of my precarious emotions, threatening to break me down into a thousand fragments. Brian felt the twitching through his hand on my back and looked down to where I had been unsuccessfully trying to hide my claw under the covers. Still without saying a word, he gently slid his arm down from my shoulders and onto the wrist. I looked away, ashamed and angry at my childlike neediness, and almost certain that he would not want me anymore now that I was 'damaged goods'. Furious tears sprang into my eyes but then I felt him shift, moving further up the bed behind me. He was going through some serious shit of his own about what happened that night, yet he was there for me. I felt his strong arms gently pulling me and I tried to still my shivering as I shifted over. I saw what he was doing when his legs bent either side of me and I felt his chest press against my back, pulling me backwards, willing me to lean on him. I felt his stomach tense as he reached over to the side of the bed for the bottle of massage oil. Then he softly took my hand and began to knead the rigid muscles, soothing the spasming. I kept my mouth tight shut, afraid that if I spoke I would ruin the moment. We sat like that, me nestled between his endless legs, curled up like a child, with his large strong hands enclosing mine, his silky chest warming my back, feeling his breath ruffle over the hairs on the top of my head._

***

Pittsburgh

Brian muttered all the swear words he knew in a long stream as he doubled over clutching his hip. Since the operation, the dull aches had turned into shooting pains which frequently caught him unawares and rendered him helpless until they passed. His doctors had said the procedure was successful. As successful as surgery to remove an evil disease which is eating your body can be. They knew they hadn't got all of it. Had to pump more toxins into him to shrink the rest. It would be his 3rd round of chemotherapy. Hopefully third fucking time lucky. Brian gasped and bit his lip as he limped to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed. Who gave a fuck anymore? He just wanted to sleep. No, that wasn't all he wanted. Ignoring the familiar ache in his heart, Brian let eyes wander over the ceiling, grey and smooth, as his thoughts drifted. Gradually, the dark expanse above him dissolved into swirling images...

_Blood. On the concrete. Fuck, what happened? It was too fast for me to see! And now you are lying here and oh God I can't breathe. I'm terrified and in this moment I don't care about denying my feelings and I know that I love you. Your face and your smile...bright, so bright... But you are here, on the floor, and you are so still. So eerily still. And I want to shake you, rock you back into consciousness just so I can quench the bubbling emotion that threatens to overwhelm me. And this is all my fault. This, the pooling blood, dark in a steadily growing puddle on the hard rough concrete. And I hate myself so much. I caused you to be bashed, I provoked the ugly intentions, I indulged myself in a display of affection. And now you are limp in my arms as I hold you, oblivious to my yell, and oh fuck, the blood. It comes flooding out of a visible crack above your ear, and the skin around is slightly sunken as I see your bone dented in. Sitting there, rocking you, willing you to live, please live, as people arrive and take out cell phones, calling the ambulance. Shouts and slapping footsteps are drowned out by the desperate pounding of my heart in my ears as the picture dissolves and I am pulled out of it. _

_Pacing in the quiet unlit loft, waiting for you. Knowing what you are doing. Knowing you are leaving me for someone else. Feeling the pain burn through my chest, making me angry at my own weakness, my own selfishness. When you finally arrive, sliding the door shut behind you, I want to grab you, shout at you, fall on my knees, beg you. Want to hurt you, shock you. Want to fuck you, want you to know all that I cannot say with words. And you are moving away from me, slipping through my fingers like you have been so often lately, avoiding my embrace with ineffective excuses. Anger, searing through me. Love, tightening my throat. Fear, niggling at my stomach. Sadness, clenching my heart. Betrayal, stinging my eyes. How can you have made me feel all these things? I was Brian Kinney, untouchable and prolific, before you came and opened the floodgates. I pull you towards me, looking at you as if I could somehow convey with my eyes alone how I know and I am hurt, and I don't want you to leave, but I know you will and I won't stop you. And then I kiss you, trying to show you what you are giving up. This, this, the undeniable passion between us, the way your body responds to mine as you melt in my arms then push back, straining to close the distance between us, bring our bodies closer, ever closer. But its over before it's begun and I am walking away, pressing my eyes shut against the rage and hurt. Walking into another sparkling picture._

_Fire spits in the fireplace as I break all my own rules, tear my heart out and offer it to you, expose myself, ask you to marry me. Try to convince you that I mean this, that it is not an impulse decision. That I have thought long and hard about it, and however long I ponder, the choice is still clear. Because I would give you anything...I would do anything...I'd be anything...to make you happy. The thought of loosing you again is unbearable and I have finally admitted to myself that I am incomplete without you. That every moment I spend away from you is empty. And you stand there looking at me in the silence, disbelieving, as well you should be, your white-gold hair glittering in the muted daylight and your blue eyes dark and so full of wisdom, of maturity. Nothing like the nervous eager young boy I let blow me in Mikey's old bedroom. I don't know when the change came. It was so gradual I must have missed it, but suddenly you were a man and my equal, my lover, my partner. And when you say 'yes' and press your lips to mine I can't believe that you have accepted me. After all the pain I have induced, after all the times I have pushed you away. After causing you to be bashed, and being so fucking stubborn I wasn't even able to tell you how much I cared. Seeing my pre-occupation, you ask me whether I am having second thoughts. If you only knew. I have never been more sure of anything in my life. The trauma of the bomb made me realize that you ARE my life, that I love you more than words can express. _

Brian woke, Justin's name on his lips. It was early evening and the loft was shadowed in the fading light. The streetlights had not yet come on and all was dark and quiet and still. Brian got up to close the blinds, feeling the predictable waves of nausea amassing in his stomach. He kept his hand on his still-aching hip as he moved slowly through the empty apartment, memories of his dream fading like the Autumn mists. But there lingered a nameless emotion, and the pain in his bones was nothing in comparison.

***

End of Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

**608 - Mask of Anarchy (Chapter 8)**

*October 2006*

_Be your strong and simple words_

_Keen to wound as sharpened swords,_

_And wide as targes let them be,_

_With their shade to cover ye._

JUSTIN:

The stuffy air in the interior of the plane throbbed in my ears. The seat in front of me captured my attention and I stared straight ahead at it, anything to avoid thinking about why I was returning, to stave off the the choking worry and anger that threatened to consume me. _Stale grey felt inlaid with a dark blue pattern..._ Mr. Olsen had been perplexed by my sudden departure and I had not had the strength to tell him why I had had to leave so abruptly. _Hey dude, my boyfriend's dying, gotta go!_ I frowned and shook the thought from my head. _Greasy brown hair poking out from behind the seat. Some businessman returning to his family in the Pitts. Lethargic thrum of air conditioning. Plastic smiles of the flight attendants. Detailed meaningless texture of the seat covers, minute threads rough and motionless..._ But the thoughts came creeping in, and I pressed my forehead to the window, pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose, and sighed.

_Could I still consider him my partner, even though I had not seen him in over 12 months? Of course I knew THAT had been deliberate; the selfless son-of-a-bitch had pushed me away, just like he had pushed Mikey away on his 30th birthday all those years ago, so I could get on with my life, do what I needed to do, without any hampering or emotional ties._

Goddamnit. I pushed my fist against the cool window until my knuckles were white. I felt so angry. How could he have assumed I cared that little? That I would just forget him once I started my great new life in New York, would stop loving him and find someone else, would reach success and bask in it, carefree, never looking back to my old friends. If he only knew that I had left my heart behind in Pittsburgh, torn out and bleeding, drawing my mind back, time and time again, with an aching, almost physical need for him.

_Despite his acting like a selfish shit, and the fact that he would do anything to disguise it, Brian has always put himself second. The battling duality in him, comprised of defensiveness and caring is part of what I loved about him. I may not have seen it at first, but he hardly ever considered his own feelings when it comes to his friends. I remember when I came back from Hollywood, bursting with experiences yet disappointed by the aborted film project, I had fallen into his arms when we were finally alone, desperate to touch him, to taste him, like coming home after all the exciting empty fucks in Hollywood. Without meaning to, I had compared him to those steamy hunks and wild parties, and had been pleasantly surprised to find that he bettered them all for me. His body was not thick and meaty, but lean and lithe; his hair was not cropped and slick, but soft and mussed; his features were not large and perfect, but angular and beautiful, his hazel eyes were huge as he gazed at me, the light playing a million shadows in them as he moved inside me fast, hard, as desperate for me as I was for him and unable to hide it. _

_But afterwards we had lain, my head resting on his gently rising and falling chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart as it returned to a normal pace, and we had talked. And I had realized when he peered shyly at me and questioned why-ever would I WANT to come back to Pittsburgh, that he actually hardly valued himself at all. He thought that I wouldn't want him, wouldn't choose him over all the buffed-up studs in Hollywood, and my heart had done a somersault in my chest as I had realized how truly self-depricating he was, how much he doubted himself. This was a side of the oh-so-cocky and confident Brian Kinney which I had never seen and it made me love him all the more. How could he think that I would choose meaningless perfection and empty freedom above what I had shared with him? How could he not know that love runs deeper and that in Hollywood, as I groaned out orgasm after orgasm, I had thought of him, had missed him, with all his imperfections. Knew him better than he would have liked and loved him beyond all surface consideration. But I had known that he would hate for me to say any of this so I had just smiled at him and given him a mischievous and non-committal answer: "I can't imagine."_

***

Pittsburgh

DEBBIE:

Debbie had invited all her 'extended family' to dinner and promptly spent the afternoon cooking. Michael had muttered some excuse over the phone about he and Ben not being able to come, but Hunter had brought himself over on the new scooter his adoptive parents had bought him, and helped her with the preparations. He had turned out to be a great kid, Debbie thought as she watched him bustling about the kitchen, mop of mousey hair falling in his eyes. Not that she could really get away with thinking of him as a kid for much longer; he was nearly 20 now and already finishing his first year at Duquesne University, studying film. Debbie smiled to herself, still thanking some lucky star that Hunter had got a second chance at life. That he had been able to stop hustling for money to buy food and settled down with the first proper family he had ever known. She still felt a flush of pride when she remembered how kind her son and son-in-law had been, taking in a dirty kid with a hostile attitude and persistently drilling the care into him until he had softened.

Thinking of Hunter made Deb think of her Sunshine, Justin... she remembered when HE had been 19. Now it had been so goddamn long since she had seen him, seen his blinding smile and bright hair. He would be nearly 25 now, a grown man. All her boys were grown up. Debbie sniffed. She was so proud of Justin and had spent many evenings talking with Jennifer, enthusing over their shared son's success. Debbie smiled sadly as she lined a casserole dish with pastry. He had phoned often at first and had even come to visit a few times, whisking her off to coffee, but gradually the calls had become fewer and further in between, and Deb had known that Justin was letting go, moving on, becoming his own man. Not that she was ever going to let him forget his loving family in Pittsburgh, once he had his career on track she would make sure he hauled his prestigious little butt back there every Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving...

"Deb!" Hunter's voice made her look up, wiping her hands on her apron. "You're meant to be making a pie, not scalping a prisoner!" He was standing with a ladle in his hand and a lop-sided grin on his face which faded as he continued. "Do you think I could bring my girlfriend over tonight to join us? I mean, we've been dating for over 2 months and she had never even met you guys..."

"Sure kiddo!" There's more than enough food to go around! And if we just tell the girls to squash up, we should all fit round the table!" Debbie chuckled. My, how she loved her family.

Later that evening Debbie's door-bell started ringing and she sent Hunter slouching tot he door to admit first Mel and Linds with the children, then Emmett, Ted, Blake and Margaret and Walter, old friends of Carls. Hunter got a call on his phone and rushed outside before coming back in with a shy grin on his face, leading by the hand a pretty girl of around 19 whom he introduced as Sarah. Debbie held out her arms as she beamed at Hunter's girlfriend.

"Welcome Honey!" My home is your home sweetie, don't feel shy!" Everybody gave Sarah smiles and waves as Debbie introduced them and although she seemed a little tentative at first, the young lady soon opened up to the warmth.

"Hunter and I met at uni," she gushed, "although I'm doing a different course to him. We met in the cafeteria! At first I was a little shocked to hear that his parents are..." She paused, blushing.

Emmett cocked his head to one side. "Gay?" he volunteered.

Sarah got even a little bit redder. "Yes." She said, looking at Deb. "You see, my parents are really orthodox christians. I grew up in a very intolerant community and I'd never met a gay person before, or heard anything about them that wasn't condemning and nasty. I'm afraid I came to Pittsburgh with a pretty black view of homosexuals painted in my head." She looked guiltily at Deb before smiling at Hunter when he squeezed her hand.

Carl's friend Walter cleared his throat and glanced at his wife before chipping in. "I know where you are coming from, kiddo. Hell, before Carl met Debbie here, gays were the blunt of more than a few jokes down at the precinct. I've worked with Carl for over 15 years and I'll admit, for most of that time we were not only ignorant, but prejudiced about homosexuas." He looked at Carl who nodded, a small smile playing at his lips, then went on. "But I've been well and truly educated, especially in the past year. I have got to know Deb and had the pleasure of coming here often. Now it angers me, some of the things I hear."

Deb gave him an appreciative look then shook her head. "I find it unbelievable how people can be so judgmental and critical of gays. Looking at them as if they were a lower life form, with less intelligence, or as if the were dirty. It's fucking barbaric, that's what it is!"

"It's okay Deb. We've got forces holding the fort out front and the artillery is ready to launch the attack."

Deb looked up at the male voice coming from the far wall and squealed as she saw Brian, standing by the doorway, a smile on his face. He looked pale, godawful pale, and slightly leaner, like he needed feeding up, but he was THERE. Deb pushed away the customary worry and ignored the impulse to knock him flat, tuck him up in bed and do some serious mothering. Instead she swallowed and smiled.

"You came!"

Brian brushed this comment off. "Yeah well, work was for shit. If I hear the words 'recipe for success' one more time I will fucking kill someone. So I figured I'd come and brave YOUR recipes, which would be less annoying, although almost guaranteed to leave me with intense indigestion." He put his tongue in his cheek and looked mischievously at her.

Deb nodded and said no more, but sneaked glances at him. He was wearing a knee-length black coat, collar turned up against the October chill, and a grey scarf bunched loosely round his neck which he unwound as he took off his coat and came to sit down. Debbie knew it had been an effort for him to come. He looked tired, so fucking tired, and although no-one said anything to his face, they were all worried. Only Walter and Margaret and Sarah did not know Brian was sick. Dinner passed in a haze of chatter and clinking of glasses. Wine spilt on the tablecloth. Quick, mop it up. Salt. Put salt on it. Pass the salt. Laughter. Brian was quiet on the whole, occasionally interjecting with a coarse remark. Debbie felt like crying as she watched him leaning back in his chair, watching the conversation. He may soon not come to her dinners anymore. No. Stop, she thought. She MUSTN'T think like that. He was young, and strong, and Goddamnit he was a fighter if ever she knew one.

Later, after Mel and Linds had left to put the children to bed, Brian stood up. "Thanks for dinner, Deb. But I'd better get going."

Deb jumped up too. "Brian honey, are you alright? Are you feeling okay? Do you need help?"

Brian looked at her with a straight face. "I'm fine. It just that tomorrow I've got to catch my luxury cruise around the world, facilitated by the wonderful pharmaceutical drug, valium." He said sweetly, adding "That's the hospital, in layman's terms." when he saw the blank expressions looking up at him.

Walter narrowed his eyes and stared at Brian, seemingly unsettled by a thought that struck him. Debbie could see Margaret come upon a realization and cringe away from Brian as she glanced at him. Walter cleared his throat. Again. "Um, excuse me, Brian. But, you're not... sick, are you?" Margaret shifted her chair slightly, a look of aversion behind her eyes.

Brian let out a short laugh and looked Walter straight in the eye. "I haven't got AIDS if that's what you mean, so don't worry. And anyway," he continued, looking at Hunter, "Even if I had, you can't catch it like a cold". Margaret relaxed, a guilty look on her face which quickly turned to distress as Brian continued; "I have cancer."

Debbie felt a lump in her throat. This was the first time she had heard Brian acknowledge it like this in front of so many people. Of course he had told Lindsey and accepted that everybody knew after that, but this made it seem so much more... real. Debbie wanted to rant and rail against the cruelty of it, wanted to take God by his pompous goddamn neck and shake him until he explained why he was doing this. She was pretty sure if she somehow got hold of the keys of heaven right now, she would seriously kick some almighty ass. Fuck, Justin should be here. Why wasn't he here? Michael had told her he was going to phone him in New York... but when, Goddamnit?

After Brian had left, there was an uncomfortable silence at the table. Walter finally spoke. "Poor guy." he said and his wife clutched his hand. "He's so young." They had known about Hunter's HIV, but felt foolish to have been so prejudiced about AIDS.

Ted folded his napkin. "Yeah, he's uh… coping very well."

Emmett said nothing, but nodded, fiddling with the tablecloth.

Hunter was silent but Debbie could see he was sad. He had a good, if unconventional, relationship with Brian and still looked up to him greatly. He held Sarah's hand and squared his jaw. And then the guests were taking their leave and the porch lights were turning off and the quiet night was creeping in. As she lay in bed, with Carl already asleep beside her, Debbie wondered where Brian was at that moment. Was he asleep? Was he in pain?

***

JUSTIN:

Pittsburgh looked exactly the same as I remembered it in the soft yellow streetlight. I walked down Liberty Avenue which was just closing up and emptying of the usual fags and scene queens... some things never change. It was the early hours of the morning: I had caught an evening flight, the only one still available on such short notice, and had gone straight on from the airport instead of staying in a convenient motel. Fuck waiting. I had waited long enough. Had procrastinated long enough. Had hesitated long enough. Too long. The night was cold but dry and I looked up to the black sky as I hurried down the dark streets, lugging my carryall over my shoulder. Feelings of dread, and excitement, and certainty coursed through me, finally coming out of suppression and enveloping me as I walked quickly, breath coming in misty puffs in the frosty night. I had stopped by Michael's on the way to pick up a key to the loft. We hadn't exchanged many words. Having stayed up waiting for me, he had just pulled me in for a hug and I had grimly taken the key and continued to the loft. The loft. As I reached the corner of Tremont and Fuller Court, and looked up at the tall shadowy expanse of building above me, I remembered before.

_Those times I had looked up as a naive and over-dramatic kid; and as a bewildered and frustrated survivor of a bashing, unable to understand why he pushed me away; and as a stupid idiot trying to discover himself, who had given up the one thing he valued in favor of a selfish violinist; and as a young man, caring for his lover through the highs and lows; and as a disbelieving soul, giddy with happiness at the realization of my dream, so in love with the person I was going to marry it misted the view of the solemn bricks above._

The chill wind bit into my back as I clenched my jaw, steeled myself and pushed open the door to the foyer. My boots made slight tapping sounds as I climbed the stairs to the top floor, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I did not know what I was going to do once I got to the loft, did not know how Brian would react, did not know how I would handle the situation. I only knew that I was here, and desperate to see him. Wanting to fling myself in his arms and apologize, over and over, for being such a wimpy faggot and listening to others, for letting them persuade me to forget him, to stay away. Wanting to shake him, scream at him for not calling me and telling me, for assuming he had no place in my life anymore. Wanting to kiss him and fuck him and bring back all the old memories in gushing streams of emotion, of feeling, of sensation. My stomach flipped and I felt a tingle at the ends of my fingers from adrenaline as I reached the top floor and saw the huge grey door ahead of me. How could a place feel so alien and yet so familiar at the same time? Someone had painted the walls of the hallway, they were no longer a dirty cream color, but the old lift was still there, wooden slats quaint and daring, and I felt a surge of familiarity. I was home.

I put the key in the lock as quietly as possible and eased the door open slowly, as Brian must have done when he had been sneaking out when I was asleep to practice for the liberty ride. It made hardly a creak and I slipped in to the dark loft. The space was shadowy, all the lights were off, but there was a faint glow from the approaching dawn in the windows and it lit my way as I slid off my shoes and put my bag down on the couch. Some things were different. Some things were the same. He had changed some of his furniture; the dining table was new, and the kitchen was slightly different. He still had that huge painting I had done, with blocks of primary colors reaching from frame to frame, up against the wall, visible as one came in. It was massive, and I had painted it specially to cover that back wall. Looking at it now, I found it unsubtle and innocent.

Putting one foot in front of the other, I walked up the short steps to the bedroom, raising my eyes and stopping in my tracks when I saw him asleep. His head was turned on the pillow, away from me, and his hand was thrown up beside his tousled hair, slender fingers gently curled. His chest was half covered by the navy blanket and I stood, frozen, watching it slightly rise and fall with his breaths. My God. Those horny fantasies and vivid memories were nothing compared to the jolt that went through me upon actually seeing him again... being in proximity to him. It was like a physical electric shock, like when I had first seen him and known he was the one, only now it originated in my chest, my heart, rather than in my crotch as it had back then. I took a step closer, my breath baited as I just looked at him. He had lost weight. Whereas before he had been slim but strong, now his muscles were depleted and one could see the bones on his shoulders more clearly. The angle of his jaw as it tilted away from me made me ache to kiss it, to touch him. Made my soul leap with excitement that I was finally here, that he couldn't fucking keep me out any longer. Made me want to break down and sob, cradle him, treasure him, beg him not to die and leave me. But I did nothing. It could wait until the morning. I saw the strands of his hair at the nape of his neck, he had kept it fairly long and it looked unkempt and tousled, a soft dark brown in the pre-dawn glow. I saw the smooth skin of his cheek, ghostly pale but pliant and flawless, with only the shadow of morning stubble. My heart tearing out of my chest, every pore aching for him, I slowly leant down and gently kissed his soft lips. A feather light touch, the silky feel of his skin against mine. I felt the warmth of his lips, the soft hint of his breath against my mouth. And then it was over, and I pulled away, wiping the wetness from my eyes and walking back to the living room area and sinking into a chair.

***

I was woken a few hours later by the daylight steaming through the light curtains over the huge window in the sitting room area, and the sound of a door slamming and the shower being turned on. I swung my legs down from where I had been curled on the couch, wincing at the stiffness in my neck. Shooting pains pulsed through my arm from where I had slept in an awkward position and I pulled both my arms behind my back to try and stretch it out as I walked slowly over to the kitchen area and put on the kettle and filled the espresso machine with coffee. I had not meant to fall asleep, but the exhaustion had overwhelmed me. Shit. Now I had only minutes before the inevitable confrontation. Why was I nervous? I knew I was where I was meant to be. I felt at home for the first time in nearly two years. But what if he wouldn't want me? I thought back to the hurried conversation I had had with Michael the day before.

_"Do I REALLY have a place in his life, Michael?"_

_"You know you do."_

_"I know I'm coming back because I love him and I want to be with him and support him. But who's to say he feels the same way about me? I mean, maybe he's moved on..."_

_"JUSTIN. He still loves you. I know, I'm his best friend. He still loves you and he misses you so much it tears him up inside. He's a stubborn son-of-a-bitch and he'll never admit it but you stole his heart. He's never loved or trusted someone as much as you, and you don't get over that kinda thing easily."_

The water boiled and I absent-mindedly poured it into the machine. Was it true? Could I just... I looked up when I heard the creak of floorboards. Brian came to the entrance of his bedroom from the bathroom, shrugging on a long-sleeved top, his trousers still unbuttoned, his hair wet and messy from the shower. When he saw me standing in the kitchen, he froze. We stood there like that for what seemed an eternity and the look on his face was similar to when he had seen me for the first time after the bashing, in the crashing din of Woody's. He did look ill. He was so pale his skin was almost the same color as the white painted wall behind me, his frame was more angular, and the bones of his face stood out, no flesh to pad them. But his eyes. Oh God, his eyes were huge and intense and so bright. Tumultuous greens and browns burned as he stared at me, his mouth slightly parted, his wet hair falling into his eyes. Then he blinked and licked his lips.

"What... are you doing here?"

I stared him down, my own gaze unfaltering. "When were you going to tell me, you obdurate prick?"

Brian's eyes lowered as he raised his hand to the back of his neck. After a long pause he sighed. "I don't know."

I put the now-full coffee jug down on the kitchen surface and moved around the counter, my eyes never leaving his face.

"Goddamnit, Brian."

He looked up and I saw with a jolt that he was having to fight himself to stay composed. He raised his chin and drew his lips into his mouth as he met my eyes. There was nothing he could say, nothing I could say. So I strode towards him and he almost stumbled down the few steps from the raised bedroom, and then he was in my arms and I was hugging him so tightly and the tears were coming and all I could do was clutch his back, his neck, in my attempt to hold him tighter, closer, ever closer. I could feel his hands grasp my shirt and he bent his suspiciously wet face to my shoulder. I was muttering, cursing him, holding him so tightly and the relief and love grief and fear rolled over me in polychromatic waves.

"You idiot. You bastard. Fuck you. God, you stubborn schmuck."

I felt the huff of his breath against my neck as he laughed and I pressed my face into his warm chest, grasping his damp hair in my fists.

Brian drew back and looked down at me, and I raised my head, my hand still behind his neck. His eyes darted back and forth as he scrutinized me, trying to read my expression. Very gently, I shook my head as I smiled and pulled him down. His lips meant mine tentatively at first, then something seemed to break inside him and he clutched me, crushing me against him as I responded, feeling the dryness of his soft lips, the wetness of his mouth, the sweet smell of his skin pervading me, making me giddy. Our teeth clashed together in out urgency and I felt I had never loved him more, never needed him more then I did at that moment. All other thoughts forgotten, I lost myself in this, the unbelievable familiarity of his touch, the feel of him in my arms, the heat of his lips and the ferocity of his spirit, as the chilly early morning light matured and cast lengthening shadows into the cool room.

***

End of Chapter 8


	9. Chapter 9

**609 - Rage, rage. (Chapter 9)**

* 1 month later * November 2006

_Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray._

_Do not go gentle into that good night._

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light. _

Pittsburgh

JUSTIN:

Brian was on a break from chemo, having finished his 3rd round of treatment. I moved around the kitchen, waiting for him to get back from a trip to check up on Kinnetic, something he had unequivocally insisted on doing alone. The silence had sometimes been tangible and almost awkward between us in the couple of weeks since my arrival. But I was resolute I was not going to try to talk through it with him; that would give him an excuse to point out my decision, question my sacrifice, and there was no fucking way I was going to let him do that. _Not again. Not this time._ There were good days and bad days: sometimes he was so sick he could hardly talk, and sometimes he felt fine. But for me there was that constant nagging fear, the terror that I refused to acknowledge, that he wouldn't pull through, that we had not yet experienced the worst.

I looked up as I heard the big metal door slide shut, putting down the wooden spoon I was holding and following him with my eyes as he walked into the loft, shrugging off his jacket and folding it in half before dropping it on the back of the sofa as he passed.

"How was it?"

He sighed. "Well, Ted and Cynthia have been making a valiant effort, but some clients have dropped out and others have been asking why they can't meet with the boss. And my disposable income is for shit. "

I smiled quietly. "I'm sure you will manage. You always do."

He gave me a pointed look as he crossed over to the fridge and took out a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap and taking a gulp before looking at me.

"So dear, how are things with you?" He dropped the teasing voice as he lowered his eyes. "Painted anything lately?"

I was caught off-guard. "Excuse me?"

"You are an artist. Have you painted anything?"

"You know I haven't."

He looked down. "Yeah well, you should."

I watched him bemusedly. "Brian. I don't need you to tell me..."

"How to lead your life?" There was something dark and dangerous behind his huge hazel eyes. "I thought I was already. Your decision to become a martyr would be impossible without me. St. Justin..."

I picked up a pot and put it roughly in the sink. "Will you cut it out?"

"Why? So you can continue to delude yourself that you were born to be some faggoty little housewife? A pure sweet homo version of Florence Nightingale? That you deserve nothing better than to cook and clean up and..."

But he got no further because I strode up to him, accidentally knocking the bottle of water out of his hand. It crashed onto the floor and the clear liquid splashed over the wooden boards, but I ignored it. I stepped back from where he stood silenced by my sudden movements and the obvious force of my anger. I had my hands on my hips and my heart was thudding but my voice was calm.

"Don't think I don't know what you are up to, Mr. Kinney. Trying to anger me so it will be easier for me to leave. Well, let me tell you, Brian, you can say anything you want, make me as angry as you want, push me away as much as you want, because nothing you can do will make me leave. I've made my decision and I'm remaining here, because I love you and I'm staying with you. Whatever happens."

He stared at me for a second and then I saw the fight go out of him and he turned away, his hand going to the back of his neck. He picked up a dishcloth and dropped it on the spilt water, spreading it out with his foot, still avoiding my eyes. The angry blood ceased pulsing in my ears and I went over to him, slowly laying my hand on his warm shoulder.

"When will you ever learn?"

His eyes finally met mine and he drew his lips into his mouth as he looked at me, looked INTO me, in the way only he could do. We stood there motionless for a long moment before his hand gently came up and brushed the hair away from my face where it was falling into my eye. We were so close I could see every detail of his pale flawless skin: the faint beginnings of stubble on his hard jawline; the tiny soft hairs on the bridge of his nose; the full sensual lips, bloodless from sickness; the fine cheekbones, pronounced more than usual in his fatigued face. But his eyes burned into mine with such intensity I felt I couldn't move. God he was so beautiful. I felt myself grow hard as I moved my hand from his shoulder round to the back of his neck, bringing my other one up to join it, feeling the bumps of his spine beneath the warm smooth skin. Every time I touched him it was like electricity, even after all these years. Just being in his presence sent jolts through me, made my heart skip a beat and took my breath away when he looked at me. Brian's hand was resting lightly on the side of my head from where he had tucked my hair behind my ear. He still had not said a word, but then again we had never really had much need for words; with Brian it had always been easier to speak with actions. And I saw he had accepted defeat. I could still sense the guilt in him, but I felt his relief too, and an intense emotion, radiating out of him in smoldering waves and drawing me to him. I liked to think it was love.

Suddenly I felt his soft lips on mine. Oh sweet, familiar sensation! _This is home. Take me home. Always. Forever_. His mouth was dry and warm, and I let him pry my lips open with gentle licks, grasping onto him harder as he pulled me in, sucking on his tongue and hearing a quiet huff escape from my chest. One minute I wanted to loose myself in the kiss, be swept away by him like I always used to be, but then I wanted to grasp onto him and hold him close, so close and never let him go._ I love you I love you I love you._ The thought that he was so sick tightened my throat and prickled my eyes and I closed them as I pulled him to me, sliding my hand underneath his shirt, he had already taken off his tie, feeling the soft muscles of his stomach and his rising and falling ribcage as he kissed me, stroking my hair and cupping my face. _Oh what have we come to? _

He drew back and fumbled with the buttons on my shirt, pushing it back off my shoulders whilst never breaking eye contact, and I managed to get his off too before he was on his knees in front of me, long fingers popping open my fly. I looked down at him, my cock hard and straining at the sight of his smooth slender body below me. I didn't understand how people could think that you would get bored with the same partner after a while. Brian was still as mesmerizing to me as when I first met him, but now it was even enhanced by how well I knew his body, his spirit....

My thoughts were cut short as I felt Brian's hand close on the base of my erection. We were in the middle of the floor, garments cast to the side, my trousers crumpled and forgotten behind me. I looked down onto the top of his head, brunette hair seductively shaggy, falling just above his collar. Brian still had his trousers on but didn't seem to care. He kept his cool hand loosely round the base of my cock as he bent his head and gently kissed the tip. I gasped at the sensations shooting like lightning up through my body, bringing my hands up to run through his soft hair. But Brian did not miss a beat. He kissed around the head of my shaft a few times, driving me crazy and eliciting a breathy moan from my lips, before holding me more firmly and taking the tip into his mouth. I involuntarily jerked upwards at the shock of wetness and heat that enveloped me and he chuckled in the back of his throat, moving his spare hand round to support my hip, holding him to me. This was the sweetest kind of torture, and Brian was very good at it. He slowly took a little more of me into his mouth before pulling off until just the head between his lips, leaving me trembling in anticipation. He kept up this unhurried bobbing until I was grasping at his hair and tipping my head back to try to fend off the rolling waves of pleasure that threatened to consume me. I felt him pull off completely and looked down.

No-one could do this to me but Brian. My cock was hard and throbbing and as I watched, a bead of pre-come leaked out of the tip and glistened in the lamplight. Brian leaned forward and gently licked it off before putting both hands on my hips and taking me into his mouth again. It was all I could do not to yell out because this time he was faster, relentless, licking and sucking up and down my member, running his tongue along the vein which stood out on the underside, before taking it all in and deep throating me. I felt my knees would buckle from the sensation. Brian did this thing where he would deep throat you and then just before pulling off he would squeeze the head of your cock with the muscles at the very back of his throat. It was almost unbearable and I never lasted with him doing it more that three times before I came. But this time he only did it once and then pulled off, breathing fast and grinning up at me while I gazed down at him with glazed eyes._ I love you. I love how you let your guard down with me and no one else. I love how you are so fucking stubbornly selfless._ Brian went back to my aching erection, his hands firm behind me, and when he took me in his mouth again and opened his throat I unintentionally thrust my hips forward.

Surprisingly, he kept still and let me fuck his mouth. New jolts shot through me at this realization. _I was the only one Brian trusted enough to do this with. It made him too vulnerable, too open._ I loved him so much in that instant, as I tried to keep my thrusts shallow enough not to choke him. After a minute, with Brian only pulling off a couple of times to breathe, I knew I was teetering on the edge. Brian knew it too and the next time I touched the back of his throat he tightened it and swallowed around me. I came with a shout and an explosion of flashes behind my eyes, quivering with the pleasure that pulsed through me. I could feel Brian swallowing as I came in his mouth. My whole body was convulsing with the intensity of my orgasm and it took a minute for me to come back to earth.

When I opened my eyes I was standing in the middle of the floor, Brian still knelt in front of me, his lips slightly swollen and his face flushed. I let out a huge shuddering sigh, feeling completely limp, the sensation still returning to my fingers and toes.

"Fuck, Brian."

He smiled as he rubbed my middle, below my navel. "I thought we just did."

And I laughed and cradled his head and he rested it on my stomach for a few seconds, while our breathing returned to normal. And then he got up and I started to stumble to the bedroom, falling onto the soft sheets, feeling completely boneless and more contented and relaxed then I had in a long time. I saw him come to the entrance and laugh.

"Did I wear you out that much, Sunshine?' He smiled as he carefully slipped off his trousers, only wincing a little at the fresh scar on his inner thigh. "Maybe there ARE benefits to being a housewife..."

He stopped as I pulled him down beside me and silenced him with a lingering kiss.

"Shuddup asshole."

***

DEBBIE'S HOUSE

The Marcus-Petersons arrived early at the Novotny house with some brownies and homemade lemonade. It was Justin's 25th birthday and Debbie had insisted on hosting "A lovely party for Sunshine, surrounded by family and friends, not all alone in New York!". As Mel unloaded Gus and JR and the presents from the car, Lindsey carried the food through to the kitchen where Debbie was going full steam ahead.

"Oh there you are, honey!" She called out as Lindsey set the tray and jug down on the table, which was covered by a hideous plastic tablecloth sporting yellow rabbits against a purple background. "I am almost done here, will you just pass me that whisk? Thank you sweetie!"

Lindsey looked round the familiar room, so homely with its culinary smell, garish colors and dated decor. "It's really kind of you to throw Justin a party" she smiled, and Debbie huffed. "It's what I do for my children. And Sunshine deserves a party now that he is back with us. He did so well out in new York, making a success of himself! But I really don't know how WE all did without him for nearly a year and a half..."

She trailed off and Linds nodded silently in agreement, busying herself with arranging the growing stacks of food on the table. She suppressed a smile as she thought about how happy Brian and Justin seemed now. They simply fitted together so well. It was as if they had never been apart. Not many relationships can withstand that kind of trial, she pondered as she carefully removed the cling-film from her brownies. To still be sure that they wanted each other after 5 years together and then over a year apart... they must have something very special. Anyone who ever doubted that Brian Kinney could love, or thought that two men are incapable of commitment, this proved them wrong, Lindsey mused. And a warm glow spread from her heart through to her hands; she was a romantic at heart and had always wanted things to work out into a fairy-tale ending. _Except it wasn't a fairy-tale ending. _The chocolate on the brownies suddenly seemed sickly and vile as Lindsey stared at them, the glow vanishing and ice flowing into her stomach. Brian was sick and no-one knew whether he would make it. Lindsey could kick herself for getting caught up in her silly childish fantasy. Her eyes prickled as she hurriedly finished preparing the platters, wiping her hands on her apron and moving through to the richly decorated living-room, soon to be crammed with guests.

Melanie brought the children through, grinning at her wife as she straightened Gus's smart clothes and glanced at the wall-clock. "Not long now." she said and Lindsey nodded, smiling at her son and noting, for the thousandth time, how much he looked like Brian.

Sure enough, people started arriving and whilst Melanie went to tear Debbie away from the kitchen, Lindsey took up hostess duty. With Gus beaming beside her, she stood by the entrance to welcome the guests. As Carl came down the stairs from where he had been getting ready, she opened the door to Michel, who hugged her and went in search of JR, and Ben, who kissed her on the cheek and handed her a bottle of wine with a smile. Emmett swooped her into a multi-colored and plastic-smelling hug (it was the trousers); Jennifer embraced her and laughed warmly; Ted pecked her on the cheek and tousled Gus's hair, making the child duck away and rub his own hair to straighten it again. Blake, however, squatted down and shook Gus's small hand. Lindsey loved him for that. But she knew who Gus was really waiting for: as Brian and Justin came to the door, the little boy uttered a squeal of "Daddy!" and shot into his father's arms. Brian swung him round gently, as much as he could do in the cramped doorway, as Justin hugged Lindsey and began to take of his scarf. Brian looked slightly better, Lindsey thought, as she watched him greet his son. He was still pale, but he looked less haggard and thin. His eyes were clear and mischievous as they met hers over Gus's rumpled brown hair, and she smiled back at him, more glad to see him than ever.

As Brian pressed soft outdoor-cold lips to hers and followed Justin through to the living room, Lindsey gazed after him. Yes, he was definitely happier, but was that because he had had good news from the doctors, or just because he was with his partner? She shook the worries from her mind and turned her attention to Justin, who, having taken off his coat, was being welcomed by his friends. He looked radiant in a pale blue shirt which contrasted with his shining blonde hair and set off his deep blue eyes. Open at the collar, it revealed his ivory skin, flawless and boyish, but his expressions and his physique revealed his true age, as he accepted gifts and exchanged greetings. Justin's face had changed gradually, Lindsey thought, recalling the enthusiastic youth who had burst into the maternity ward on Brian's heels. His features had become stronger, more masculine and thoughtful, and the infantile softness had gone from his cheeks. As she watched, Justin turned and flashed her a gentle smile and Lindsey smiled back. 'I guess we have all changed since then' she thought, before tucking her hair behind her ears and joining the gathering.

Sometime later in the evening, after food had been served and presents opened and alcohol consumed, Melanie rested her head on Lindsey's lap as they reclined on the couch. Linds was driving later so she absently stroked her wife's hair and kept an eye on the children as they played on the rug near the coffee table. Guests were spread out around the house: Brian and Justin shared Deb's big armchair, or rather Brian sat in it and Justin sat half on him, half on the arm of the monstrous piece of furniture. Emmet was in avid conversation with Carl, Michael was playing with JR, Ted and Blake were joking with Debbie by the stairs, and Jennifer was chatting with Ben. The atmosphere was comfortably familial and Lindsey felt a rush of gratitude that she and Mel had moved back to be where they were loved.

Eventually, Debbie got up to clear some of the building piles of dishes, Justin rising to help her, and Lindsey looked down at Melanie. "Aren't you glad we moved back here, to our home?" She asked.

Melanie opened one eye and groaned. "Jeez, you do pick the best times to become contemplative don't you?" She chuckled. "How come you are thinking about that now, honey?"

Lindsey glanced up at the children before answering. "Well, its just.... it's so nice to feel part of a big family. I missed that in Canada. We didn't know anybody there. There were no birthday parties to go to, no people to welcome us. It just really makes one realize how precious friends are, especially since they won't be around forever..." She trailed off and her hand stilled on Melanie's hair. Her partner sat up and shrugged off Lindsey's arm, looking her in the eye. But before she could speak Lindsey continued, hurriedly.

"It's NOT just about Brian, you know it isn't. I mean, it IS lovely for Gus to have his Dad, and..." She lowered her voice. "considering how sick he is, I think it is important we are here. But you know as well as I do, we do belong here. This is our home. I just can't believe we ever left..."

Melanie sighed and rubbed her wife's back. "I know sweetie. I know." She leaned in, curiosity in her eyes. "Do you think Justin is asking himself the same thing?"

But before Lindsey could answer there came a commotion from the utility room. Raised voices pierced the thin walls of the Novotny ground floor and Ted dropped his glass in surprise. The shouts were muffled and indistinct, but words and phrases crashed through to the living room, which was now in a commotion.

"HOW DARE YOU?" ...

"Please stop" ...

"PUNCHED HIM" ...

"Think clearly" ...

"GIVEN UP ON HIM" ...

"Justin" ...

Lindsey saw Jennifer flinch and Brian rise from his chair as they recognized Justin's voice, along with Debbie's. Just as Brian started to stride to the kitchen, Justin walked though the doorway adjoining it, his face concentrated with hurt and rage, his eyes a scalding fierce blue, his jaw hard and set. He grabbed his coat, said quick goodbyes to those still sober enough to comprehend, and strode towards the door. Brian looked around confusedly before he too picked up his coat and headed out after his partner, squeezing Lindsey's shoulder in farewell as he passed.

***

JUSTIN'S POV

It had all been a wonderful evening, filled with laughter, and I was so grateful for Debbie's hard work and unfailing generosity in throwing me an albeit embarrassing but unquestionably heartening get-together. For the first time since my return a month before, I felt like I was truly back, amongst my family. The family I had had since I was 17 years old. The family who had accepted me for who I was and supported me though my insecurities, my tantrums, my traumas. It had all been so joyful and warm. Until Debbie got me to one side and started talking to me. It was late in the evening; the party was winding down and we were in the pantry, sorting out the used dishes and storing food which had not been eaten. I think she thought she was doing me a favor. She probably figured I would appreciate and benefit from her wisdom, maybe even draw comfort from it. But she took it too far. I was wiping clean a freshly washed tray when she stopped rolling cling-film onto a plate of sandwiches and spoke.

"You know, kiddo, I am so glad you came back."

I smiled. "Me too, Deb."

She continued. "But, Sunshine, I think you gotta be prepared for the knocks, if they come, and I pray they don't..." Before I could ask her to what she was referring, she continued. "When I was looking after Vic, and he seemed better for a long time, you remember that don't you Sunshine, well, I thought because I loved him he couldn't die. Couldn't leave me. And that's a very stupid thing to think. Death is never easy. And Loss, well, Loss is worse. I should have prepared myself earlier, not taken any moment for granted..."

"Deb, what are you talking about?" I interrupted her, knowing full well what she was getting at and feeling the cold snake of shock uncurling in my stomach.

"I just want you to be prepared, honey..."

I set the dish down with a clang. "What?"

"For when, if... Brian... He is very sick, Justin. I just don't want you to be hurt."

I stared at her, the rage and fear boiling up in my throat. "You speak as if he is going to die."

Her eyes found mine and she reached out for me. "He's got cancer, sweetheart."

My bewilderment and terror, and perhaps also denial got the better of me. "HOW DARE YOU? How dare you condemn him like that! You of all people should know that illness is not necessarily a death sentence! You never gave up on Vic, NEVER!"

She tried to placate me. "Sunshine, I didn't mean it like that, please stop..."

But I was fuming. "When Brian was careless in mentioning Vic's life YOU PUNCHED HIM! And now you do the same thing. No! Even WORSE, because Brian is not even dead!"

Her hands were clutched on her chest. "Justin, honey. Just calm down and think clearly! I was trying to help you prepare incase..."

I snatched off my apron and put it on the side. A bitter taste in my mouth. "Incase? Incase? You've GIVEN UP ON HIM! Is this what it takes for you to 'let go'? Not even TRYING to fight for him? Well, I'm sorry, but I will, until the end!"

And with that, I opened the door and walked away from her, ignoring her protest "Justin!" and marching straight past Brian who was coming to check on the commotion. I momentarily worried whether he had heard our conversation, but then I couldn't think of anything anymore, only the blinding fear, and the feeling of being dropped back to earth with a agonizing jolt, and the overpowering sense of betrayal, and the need for the cool, empty night air. I knew I was being a drama queen, but I didn't care. I grabbed my coat, aware of Brian watching me, I took my leave of the others and hurried out the door. Once in the black night I jogged down Deb's front steps out of reach of the porch lights and stood by Brian's car, hands shoved in pockets, frosty puffs of breath barely visibly in front of me, heart still pounding and thoughts screaming. After a minute I felt Brian come up behind me. He wrapped his arms around my chest and pushed against my back. I wanted to hug him, hold him, but my anger came out on him.

"Get off me." I snapped, struggling half-heartedly.

"No."

The more I pulled at his arms, the tighter they wrapped around me, and his weight pressed against my back, almost making me stumble forward. I wanted to hit him, and I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to get away from here, and I did not want to go home to normality and fear. I wanted him to leave me alone, and I wanted to never let him go. I wanted him to be cold and uncaring and I wanted him to reassure me. And then I felt angry at myself for being such a stupid faggot and shouting at Deb. And then I just felt tired. Our breathing perforated the otherwise silent night. After a minute of tense hostile silence, I eventually relaxed, gave in and leant my head back against his coated chest. He didn't ask questions, he just lowered his chin and very gently kissed my cold cheek as my head was tipped back on him. Then, in true Kinney style, he raised his lips to my ear and in a sultry, if slightly shivery voice, said:

"Now, can we get in the car? Because I am fucking freezing."

*** 

THE LOFT

Later that night Brian awoke to the sound of a clatter. He raised himself on one elbow, hand shielding his eyes from the muted light coming out of the kitchen area. He could make out the figure of his partner cursing and bending down, moving about behind the counter. Brian ran his hand over his face, shaking the last remnants of sleep from his head, and ignoring the familiar pain in his abdomen before sliding his legs round to the side of the bed, slipping on a pair of navy sweat pants and heading out of the bedroom. He walked barefoot slowly and quietly to the metal beam by the kitchen, where he leant, arms folded, watching Justin. The other man was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and was immersed in cleaning the counter. Brian saw a feverish glow emanating from him, as it did when he was troubled. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were dark and brooding when he looked at Brian.

"You should go back to bed."

Brian didn't move. "Do you know what time it is?"

Justin glanced at the wall clock with disinterest. "Near 3.30. I guessed it was about that."

The taller man sighed, and came round from his position against the pillar, blocking Justin's way and forcing him to make eye contact. "Come to bed."

Justin tried to avoid him. "I can't sleep."

"Good, then you can blow me."

Brian smiled a little as he said it and Justin broke into a short laugh. "Ever the romantic!" He affirmed quietly, seemingly slightly surprised by the old words falling into his mouth. Brian, by way of answer, raised his hand to the back of Justin's neck and smoothed the hair there, feeling the golden tresses soft beneath his fingers.

"Come on."

With that he began walking backwards, flicking off the kitchen light as he passed, pulling Justin by the neck, only turning around and walking to the bedroom when Justin gave up and came willingly. Once in the semi-darkness, with the wall-light above the bed off and the only illumination the streetlights filtering through the Jacques Garcia blinds, Brian sat down on the bed and pulled Justin down beside him, causing the younger man to laugh as he bounced slightly.

But Brian sat quietly, studying the grey flagstone floor, long legs crossed in front of him. Eventually he looked up at Justin, undemanding, not pushing, simply letting him know he was open to hearing an explanation. Justin felt Brian's gaze and shifted uncomfortably, running his hand through his beautiful hair and shaking his head in that adorable way he did, as if he could dislodge unwanted thoughts. Blue eyes, almost navy in the darkness, met Brian's and Brian ignored his own tiredness and weakness, distinguishing his lover's flawless features in the gloom, smooth and warm and so… Justin. Brian wanted to kiss him, to fuck away his problems, but he knew it wasn't what Justin needed and remembered with a pang that his own body was not up to it either. So he sat still whilst Justin reassured him.

"It's nothing, really Brian. Deb just said something that annoyed me. I really shouldn't have queened out. It was stupid and immature. I will go over there tomorrow and apologize. I'm fine. I just couldn't sleep. I'm sorry I woke you."

As Justin talked, his voice mature and calm, Brian looked down and saw his partner's hand, his right hand. With all the force of old memories and forgotten suffering he saw that it was shaking. _The old twitching quiver so familiar and yet so distant, the spasms which betrayed Justin's feelings even when he was putting on a brave front. _With a tightening in his chest, Brian gently took hold of the strong but now useless fist and Justin's eyes avoided his in silence. Immediately Brian stood up and padded barefoot to the bathroom, feeling Justin's gaze burn into his back. When he returned, carrying a small bottle, he saw Justin jerk, an internal struggle taking place as he recognized the old massage oil from years before. It was a new bottle, obviously, but the same brand. Brian paid him no attention and went back round to his side of the bed, silently sitting back down and pouring a little oil into his hand, _old routine_, warming it slightly before taking Justin's reluctant palm and rubbing small circles in the pad of the thumb where he knew it relaxed and reduced the shaking.

After a minute, Brian felt Justin look at him, and raised his own head too. Their eyes met and Justin tried to protest:

"Brian…"

But he was silenced when Brian bridged the small gap between their heads and kissed him; a light, chaste, loving kiss. He could feel a slight dampness on Justin's cheeks and his heart pulsing through the warmth of his lips. Brian continued to rub the oil into his lover's hand, working each muscle, hoping that he could alleviate Justin's distress as he felt the tendons relax and the convulsing cease. Justin released a sigh and leant slightly against Brian, both of them absently watching his hands covering Justin's. Brian barely heard it; it was breathed quietly, as is Justin were talking to himself.

"Thank you."

In answer Brian kissed the still-tousled hair on his shoulder and felt Justin's other arm come round and stroke his back. The right hand was now peaceful in his lap and all was quiet. Justin took off his jeans and in a warm mantle of sleepiness, the edges of furniture silhouettes became hazy and grey. Brian lay back on the pillows, pulling Justin against him, feeling the weight of the slack muscles in Justin's arms and curling his fingers into the flaxen hair. _Oh to stay entwined forever, where no worry, or sickness, or offence could permeate._ They were still and comfortable as sleep drifted down to cover them. They could talk in the morning.

***

End of Chapter 9


	10. Chapter 10

**610 - Arise And Unbuild (Chapter 10)**

* The next day * November 2006

_I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,_

_And out of the caverns of rain,_

_Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,_

_I arise and unbuild it again._

_- Shelley_

Pittsburgh

JUSTIN:

I opened blurry eyes to see the high ceiling of the loft lit with morning light. Momentarily confused, I had to blink a few times before I remembered. Realized with a flip of my stomach that it was not a dream, not another fantasy; that I really was here, have been here for a month, in the loft and back where I belong.

As the sense trickled into my limbs, I turned my head to my right to see Brian lying quietly, still asleep, unusual for him because he is a restless sleeper at the best of times, but I remembered he had been up in the middle of the night with me as I silently fretted about what Deb had so gracelessly said at my party. He was on his side, facing me and the tall windows beyond the bedroom, and the sunlight fell dappling onto his ghostly pale skin, an alluring 9 o'clock shadow darkening his jaw. His features were relaxed, the faint lines were smoothed from around his eyes and he looked so innocent and peaceful. His silky chestnut hair caught the light and shone subtly, making me yearn to touch it. His hand lay beside him on the pillow, long fingers gently curling, palm soft and smooth. I stayed and watched him for a minute, listened to his gentle breaths, the sound of which I knew as well as my own voice. God, I had missed him. As I felt the warm sun on my back, and resisted the urge to kiss him awake, I made a promise to myself that I would never again be so deluded, would never again force myself to give up the one thing that meant the most to me in the whole world. Would never again lose my lover, my mentor... and my best friend.

A short time later, as I padded out of the bathroom and down the steps of the bedroom toweling my hair, still trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake Brian, I noticed an answer message flashing on the machine. With the volume down low, I pressed 'enter' and stood with folded arms, biting my lip, as it played.

"…_Justin? Is that you honey? … It's Debbie. I don't know what happened last night, but I could kick myself for upsetting you. On your birthday too!…I just shouldn't have opened my big mouth. …Justin, Sunshine. Please come and talk to me. Let me make it up to you? …Listen, um, I will be in the diner today, please come over."_

The line went dead and I sighed, placing my hands in the small of my back and stretching my neck skywards until I saw the hefty wooden beams above me. It wasn't her fault I blew a fuse. I knew that. It was entirely mine, for being in denial, for refusing to think about any of it, for wanting to block out reality and being a sensitive selfish queen. And yet her fatalism still shocked me. The way she seemed to have accepted defeat and already written Brian off. I shuddered. Even in the warm clear light of morning, an icy fist of dread clenched in my stomach at the thought of losing him. _Not now, not when I have just got him back. Oh god please not now._

I went to the kitchen and made a pot of strong coffee when I heard Brian moving in the bathroom. Shortly he came down to join me, dressed in grey pants and a maroon v-neck top, which hugged his beautiful frame and made my cock stir with lust. He paused by me, leaning to give me a lingering kiss on the cheek and I smiled: it was so comfortable, so homely, so _husbandly_. Not that I would say that to him, of course, so I just rested my hand on his back and pulled him in slightly before stepping away and holding up the jug.

"Want some coffee?"

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Yeah. I feel like shit."

I grinned at him as I poured our drinks. "So prancing around in the early hours doesn't suit you any more then, old man?"

His hand lowered as he raised his eyebrow and gave me a pointed look. "There are those of us who have to save the damsel in distress when she suffers from determined insomnia, _little boy_."

I welcomed the mutual teasing; it defused the situation and made me forget about last night, and more importantly, the _reason_ for last night and all the worries that came with it. But when I looked at Brian he really did not appear well at all, he had dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and I felt a momentary twinge of emotion: guilt for keeping him up, gratitude for having such a caring boyfriend, and a great appreciation for his discreet yet invariable support. He was always there for me, quiet and undemanding, casual yet unwavering. His hands were cold as he took his mug from me and he was silent, contemplative as he sipped it. I looked at him.

"Are you feeling ok?"

Brian groaned. "No, I told you, I feel like shit, remember?"

He was silent for a moment then he put his cup down, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes met mine. I went back over, pressing myself against him, gently rubbing his back, breathing into his jaw and lightly kissing the bump of his Adam's apple, feeling the soft vibrations of his voice through his chest as he continued:

"The doctors are gonna try out some new drugs to help with the nausea."

"That's good."

"Hmn"

I stopped stroking Brian and brought my arms down around his waist, holding him close. He sighed deeply and buried his face into the curve of my neck. As he exhaled I could feel his hot breath against my skin; my mouth was against his ear and I spoke in a low voice.

"You know I love you, right?"

I said it simply, stating a fact. It was still hard to say after the emotional upheaval of yesterday, because it re-opened a floodgate, created new possibilities, re-established old ties. But I said it unsmiling, and as Brian pulled away from me I watched him with seriousness. I saw the tiniest fleeting glimpse of surprise in his guarded eyes before he glanced away, then back. He said nothing, but after a moment, he dipped his chin in the smallest of nods, biting his lip and briefly stroking my shoulder. I continued to look at him.

"Good. Don't forget it."

And with that I moved away and changed the subject, knowing that a display of shameful sentimentality would not be appreciated. My hand caught his in a lingering caress as it slipped from my upper arm and I walked past him, talking over my shoulder. "I am going to the diner this morning. I'm going to talk to Deb."

He leant against the counter and scratched his head. "Is that a wise idea?"

"She wants to meet me. She left a message earlier."

"Ahhh."

Shortly afterwards, I pulled on a sweater and my coat, slipping my bag over my head and glancing over to where Brian was concentrating on his computer screen. He had declined my invitation to come along, saying he had work to finish for a recently rather neglected Kinnetik, which Ted had been struggling to run on his own most of the time. I was glad of the space. I had no idea how my 'conversation' with Deb was going to go: whether I would apologize like I meant to, or whether I would become angry again. My emotions felt like fragile rags, blowing in a reckless wind. One push too far and I would break. As I called goodbye, buttoning up my collar, I forced a smile that I knew Brian could see right through. Sometimes I loved him so much; the fact that he did not question me, did not demand to be privy to my problems even though he probably suspected he was partly their cause. He just nodded and gave me a quick smile before turning back to his work. His eyes were uneasy, light brown-green orbs in the autumn light, and I pivoted on my heel, closing the door behind me, not wanting him to see the internal struggle that took place in my chest. _Oh for him to be well again, for the chemo to work, for us to be left alone. Haven't we been through enough shit already? Maybe God is a gay-basher too._

***

THE DINER

A tall lanky man in a leather jacket swerved to avoid an unbalanced tray, which was being carried by Kiki the waitress as she tottered past the counter in stilettos. He threw his hands up in theatrical protest as a plop of yellow milkshake landed on his pink T-shirt, looking after the unsteady drag queen who screeched a "Sorry!" over her shoulder as she was propelled forward by some unseen force, just managing to put the tray down on the expectant but surprised table before grabbing the end of the bar and regaining her balance. Debbie came through from the kitchen with raised eyebrows, surveying the startled faces and pink-and-yellow masterpiece with a grin before cracking her gum in amusement.

"Kiki hun, maybe lay off the high-heels at work tomorrow sweetie?"

And then, as the radio cheerfully started playing a Christmas carol, voices rising in festive incongruity, washing over the still quiet diner, jarringly out-of-place in the sunny morning:

"I am so sick of that goddamn song! I don't understand why the fuck they do that! They have to start celebrating Christmas so early beforehand that when it eventually does come around, everyone's sick of it!

The radio, oblivious to the attention it was attracting, blared optimistically on, cheerily welcoming the little lord Jesus into the world and ringing the bells of reindeer harnesses. Debbie glared at it while she got the Milkshake-Leather man a napkin. It was a quiet morning in the diner, only a couple of customers huddled in distant booths, and she could see the wind outside blowing a music to which the trees danced, the last few withered leaves falling in a fire of reds and oranges. Debbie liked autumn, it was colorful, like her, and it brought back fond memories from her childhood wading through piles of crackling russet vegetation in green wellingtons, scarf prickling warm around her neck.

The bell on the door tinkled and Debbie looked up to see Justin entering, his cheeks flushed from the cold, fair hair almost white. She still could not get over how much of a man he had become; it seemed only yesterday to her that he was an exaggerated skinny youth, all expressions and gestures and storms of emotion, but now as she looked at him, he had grown into himself. His physique was stronger: although he had not grown much more in height, his whole person was more in proportion; a man's body. However, it was the way he held himself, the maturity in his self-possession, the calm confidence beneath his still boyish features which struck her the most. His expression was careful and apologetic as he caught her eye and came towards her.

"Deb…"

Debbie put down the napkin she had been holding. "No, Sunshine. … Let me. Look, come here."

She pulled him into one of the furthest booths, quiet in a corner, and sat opposite him, taking his large hand in hers and running her thumbs over the back of it, looking earnestly into his bright blue eyes.

"I had no right to say what I did, kiddo. I realize that. You know me, always puttin' my foot in my mouth and sayin' what I shouldn't."

Justin mustered a small smile and shook his head. "No Deb, I was wrong to have shouted. I shouldn't have got angry. You were only trying to help me. It is my fault I was too closed to hear it. There is nothing wrong with speaking your mind, in fact I've always admired you for it…"

Debbie cut him off. "Justin, Sunshine? Stop right there."

Justin looked up at her.

"What you did was because of what you feel. And that can't have no restraints. You can't impose rules on emotions, just like you can't measure 'em. So don't ever be ashamed of caring for someone. Love ain't easy, kiddo, but nothing's more worth the trouble."

Justin swallowed and nodded, a weak smile playing at his lips. Debbie stroked his cold cheek with the back of her hand as she continued.

"You know as much as anyone that I don't go for pessimism. So why I said what I did last night, I don't know, but hear this, Sunshine. Brian IS gonna get well, because I told God if he didn't I'd rip God's balls off" She chuckled. "If he has any. And God has always been wise enough to listen to me in the past. So, I won't think any more shit thoughts like that, if you won't. Deal?"

At that moment the beautiful blonde in front of her would have looked 10 years old if his expression had not been so burdened with tiredness and worry and responsibility. He gently squeezed her hand back, and Debbie could feel the powerful muscles in his palm.

"Deal."

Debbie smiled and patted Justin's face, but then she frowned at him.

"One more thing. Don't you ever shout at me again, you little shit. Y'hear?"

The look of surprise on Justin's face quickly changed into a laugh and Debbie pulled him in for a hug, feeling the strong forearms coming around her waist, and running her hands along the faint bumps of his spine. He had always had a rather bony back, seventeen of her triple chocolate November specials, that's what he needed.

***

* 1 week later *

JUSTIN:

A week later and Brian was still feeling worse. He had an appointment booked for a scan to see if he needed more chemo, something both he and I were dreading. Although I had noticed him become quieter than usual, I said nothing, knowing how he hated to be pampered, and just tried to be there when he was in pain, or feeling weak, or nauseous. I came in one afternoon to find Brian on the sofa, left knee drawn up, one arm protectively around his stomach, the other hand holding my cell phone. He was looking at it thoughtfully and I put my bad down on the kitchen counter before walking over to him, kissing his hair and smelling the shampoo he always uses, before sliding my hand down his neck and along his shoulder in a fond greeting.

"Hey"

"Hey yourself." He glanced at me amusedly out of the corner of his eye, but I sensed something troubled beneath the surface and moved my gaze to my phone in his hand.

"Oh that's where it is. I didn't know I had left it here."

He twirled it in his slender fingers before sighing and holding it out to me, working up to what he was going to say.

"Your Dad called. It was ringing so I answered and I think he wanted to speak to you. Anyway, he didn't sound to happy to hear me."

He gave a dry laugh and I looked at the screen. _Unread text._

Brian saw me. "Yeah, I think it's him. I didn't read it. Thought you might like to open Pandora's box yourself."

He stood up gingerly and leant to kiss me on the lips, his hand warm on my back as I perched on the back of the sofa, and then he headed for the kitchen and put the kettle on. I walked slowly towards the steps of the bedroom, my phone extremely heavy in my reluctant hand, hesitating, wondering. The sender ID was withheld, I could see that much… but did I really want to hear what _he_ had to say? I absently took off my jacket and suddenly I felt Brian behind me, wrapping his arms around me, locking his hands on my stomach and kissing my neck. I leant back against him, holding onto his arms. He buried his face in my hair, inhaling languidly as if savoring my scent, and I forgot the about the phone and felt his broad chest gently rising and falling against my back. Nothing equaled this feeling. Nothing came close to this staggering coalition of love and hope and fear and passion and this deep, incredible tenderness that filled my body whenever I was with him. He smiled in my ear.

"You smell of fresh air."

I twisted my head back, winding my hand into his hair and sliding my tongue in to his mouth, feeling the soft warmth there and wanting to kiss him so hard that we became one, to kiss away the doubt and sickness. Our teeth clinked as he smiled against me, his lips opening to my tongue, and I turned completely in his arms until I was facing him and continued, pushing it deeper into his mouth, my hands behind his head, taking it slow and easy, eyes closed with the pleasure. I said silently with my mouth all the things I wasn't meant to say out loud. _I love you. I won't leave you. I know things are bad right now but I've got you._ He let out a sigh and I took a step forward, pushing him gently until the backs of his knees touched the bed, and then when he sat down on it I pressed him backwards, laying him down on the navy coverlet with me on top of him, nestled between his legs and holding myself up on one elbow as I sucked at his lips, his tongue, licked his teeth and the roof of his mouth.

When Brian's hands found their way into my hair, tugging gently, passionately running through the shortish mane, holding my mouth right where it was, I gave a slow gentle thrust, lazily moving my hips, rubbing my hard cock against his groin, eliciting a breathy moan from his lips. I had always loved making out with Brian, I could come just kissing him.

I felt the tension leave my body, just the feel of Brian's flesh beneath me, the knowledge that he was here and that I loved him relaxed my shoulders and freed my mind. I became aware again of his hands caressing my hair and I opened my eyes to look down at him. Our faces were inches apart and his eyes were dark with lust and vulnerability; he was unguarded, just lying there under me, looking up into my eyes, and I felt for a moment as if I had lost myself in him, forgotten my body and was floating, helpless. Brian was breathing in gentle gasps and I pushed my nose into his neck, breathing in the scent of his clothes and skin and arousal, before bringing my mouth back round, kissing his neck, his jaw and finally his mouth again.

It went on a long time. I felt the pleasure in my groin building as I struggled to keep myself from ramming against Brian. _Oh for this to go on forever, in a cocoon of sweat and spit and love, shielding us from reality, taking us to another place, a beautiful place. _Brian sucked on my tongue and clenched his fists in my hair as I came, my clothes still fully on, my lips fixed to his, my cry lost in the depths of our mouths, my arm trembling from holding myself so steady. We lay for a long moment in the silence until I heard Brian sigh and felt his fingers slide from my hair. He brushed the side of my mouth is a chaste kiss and lay his head back down on the bed; his whole body conveyed exhaustion and I raised my hand to brush the damp locks away from his forehead before easing myself off him and heading for the bathroom to clean up and change my pants.

When I came out again he was sitting on the edge of the bed, long legs stretched out and crossed in front of him, smoking a joint. His eyes sparkled mischievously as he smiled at me and I laughed sheepishly, blushing slightly, like an embarrassed teenager. It wasn't often anymore that I jizzed my pants, and I deduced that he took a roguish pleasure in it. Still grinning, I shoved his shoulder slightly in jest as I passed him, and then his face became serious and he held out my phone to me, the unread text staring out and burning a hole in my gut. I swallowed and took it from him.

"I'm gonna to go for a walk, okay?"

He nodded, and I pulled on my coat, wrapping a scarf around my neck and shoving the phone in my pocket, flashing him a nervous smile before pulling the heavy iron gate closed and hurrying down the stairs.

***

Once out in the chilly air, I headed for a bench on a quiet side road, sitting and pulling out my phone, not quite knowing why this meant so much to me. I hadn't heard from Craig in over 2 years, why should I care if he contacted me now? My thoughts drifted back to when I had explained it all so easily to Brian as a naïve teenager: _"Even if he gets angry, even if he isn't always there, it's better than not having a father at all". _I pursed my lips. What if your father hates you? What then? My hands were getting cold so I quit staring at the screen and flipped my phone open, pressing 'read'.

'_Justin. Tried 2 call u earlier. Was surprised 2 learn that u are still with tht sick bastard. Thought u knew better. Was going 2 invite u 2 dinner 2 meet the wife + kids if u had grown up, but see now u haven't. U disappoint me. Craig.'_

I swallowed the golf ball that had found it's way into my throat, staring at the hostile text in my hand for a long moment before closing my phone and rising from the bench, my feet unconsciously taking me down old routes as I strode angrily against the wind, lost in my thoughts. Presently, I found myself in a place curiously familiar to me; the old, now-deserted fairground Dad used to take me to as a kid.

A conspiracy of bushes obscured the aging machinery, dirty bits of rubbish waving forlornly to me from their withered skirts. A pearly mist blanketed the deserted park, swirling in the autumn light, and a Persian carpet of leaves covered the ground as I stepped through the bushes closer to that long-forgotten place. Silver skies illuminated the empty scene; the soft light was muted and quiet. My eyes moved over the shapes as it highlighted the silhouette of the broken fence and caressed the fairground. The sleeping rides were deathly still, rusty limbs stretched out over empty pathways.

The graying gates groaned with age as I pushed them open, elderly wood ridged and dry beneath my touch. I entered through them, as I used to enter, as so many people entered after me, in the dim shrouded world of happy summer days long past. I gazed around the cathedral of gently sleeping structures, towering over a dappled floor. The wind, in a gentle gust, swept up a lonely eddy of unrecognizable wrappers from long ago. The unkempt grass was yellowing and damp, partly veiled by the reds and golds of fallen leaves, and there was no sound save for the distant howling of the wind chasing over the common.

_I thought I heard a child's voice. A whisper of faint laughter, an echo of a once busy place. Then suddenly it was joined by others. A murmur passed through the fairground and as I watched, it stirred and woke. Colors were growing out of the mist! A glow swelled through the fog, brightening each cobweb and arousing each recollection. Grass burned green, stalls sparkled with painted shutters, rusty limbs spread pink, blue and yellow. I was laughing, a child's laugh, turning dizzy circles in the vibrant realm of the fairground's memory. Lethargic rides creaked into motion and the brightening merry-go-round was blown into a whirl of color, horses stamping and shining, leaping and bounding. I reached out, eager to touch a gleaming flank, but as my hand met the painted wood, it felt strange. Not the shiny smooth surface I saw, but rough and ribbed. So very wrong! The coarse grooves of old wood. Deprived of varnish and weathered beyond recognition. With my tentative contact, the recollection shrank back; the horse became a withered effigy of age. The ghost children stopped laughing. Memories. As I watched, my heart galloping and bewildered, the merry-go-round shed its colors one by one and ground to a halt, settling for a lengthy stand. The fading rides stopped turning and settled back down to their solitary sleep, limbs folding gracefully with a shudder and a gentle creak. A sigh passed through the fairground. The grass drew up its blanket of leaves once again, as if it too were bedding down. The closing and locking of a sparkling music box. _

And I was left alone. All was quiet and still once more. My heart was calmer now, tranquil, as I stood in the deserted fairground; the grey sky was reflected in the now closed shutters, hanging off their hinges. Only remembrance. All was silent and still, save for the distant howling of the wind, and the steady clanking of a chain against the railing. Turning to walk back through the creakily sobbing gates, I breathed in the damp earthy smell of autumn, bidding goodbye to memories.

***

THE LOFT

If the light above the bed could see, it would have a pretty good view. From where it hung, it looked down onto the bedroom, and part of the bathroom, but beyond that, the rest of the loft was visible through the entranceways and slats, with its high ceiling and huge windows shrouded in gauze curtains. On the day Justin got a text from his father which he went out to open, the light figured the outcome would not be good, so when Justin left to read the text alone, it crossed it's fingers for him. Or it would have, if it had any.

Brian sat for a while longer on the bed after his partner had creaked and rattled the huge door shut, pondering over his joint until it burnt down and Brian stubbed it out in the nearby ashtray. The light saw him rise and rub his forehead, no doubt pre-occupied with Justin's Dad, the nasty fucker. Not that the light hated Craig, indeed, it kinda understood him. It knew that hatred comes from fear, and fear comes from ignorance: It had seen and heard about enough homophobes to fathom their mindsets, to grasp that Criag was scared and confused by something he had never before known happening in his own family. The sliding sense of losing control that happens to all parents hit Mr. Taylor especially hard, as his son turned out to be something he couldn't talk him out of, couldn't command, couldn't _understand. _The light hung silently as Brian worked at his computer, now and again taking a sip of water, as if to fight waves of nausea, and at other times inhaling and rubbing his hip, occasionally swigging back a painkiller. Confidentially, it shed dim light into the growing dusk of early evening.

Eventually, Brian stood up, shutting of his computer. He looked weary, and a little faint as he held onto the edge of the table for support. The wall light saw his face, bloodless and drawn, scrunch in pain as he gasped for breath. Staggering to the bathroom, he fell his knees; he was shaking, retching into the empty stainless steel toilet. Hanging where it was, the light could see Brian's profile, eyes staring, mouth grimacing with pain as he buckled over panting, clutching his thigh, where the scar from where they had hacked the cancerous part of his bone out was slowly healing. As the retching continued, the light could see Brian getting weaker, the strength fleeing from his limbs, the fight going out of him, and then he vomited a thin stream of red into the toilet bowl, and it kept coming. Blood splashed the floor as Brian gasped for breath between retching. After a minute, it slowed down, and the light could see Brian sit back on his heels, head hanging low and shoulders shaking with what? Pain? Shock? Exhaustion?

Just then, the wall light heard a blessed sound. It was the sound of Justin's key in the lock, and the rumble of the gate sliding open. If Brian heard it too he gave no sign, only raised up again to spit another thin trail of blood into the toilet. Justin was calling Brian's name, glancing around the flat as unwound his scarf and the light could feel his unease, sensing something was wrong, in the way his clear milky brow puckered into a frown and he strode earnestly towards the bedroom, towards the light. As he reached the bathroom and saw Brian gripping the toilet seat with white knuckles, Justin's breath caught in his throat. The light thought Justin might choke as his eyes passed swiftly at the exhausted man kneeling on the floor, and the blood in the latrine, before he rushed forward and crouching down next to Brian clutching at his back, forgetting to be gentle.

"Jesus, are you alright? Are you conscious? Oh God, Brian, can you hear me?"

Brian gave a small nod, shivering, and the light could see the tears of terror in Justin's eyes as he spoke in a calm, if slightly quivering voice.

"Hold on, Brian, I'll get help, just stay there, you're gonna be okay. Just stay with me."

He pulled out his cell phone and the light heard the quick triple-beep of the three numbers being pressed. Less than 10 minutes later the flat was swarming with medics in blue uniforms, and the light felt slightly belittled by the huge sweeping flashes of red-blue illumination which pervaded the loft from the ambulance outside in the street. A stretcher was produced and hustled through the flat, while Justin stood back, helpless, twisting his hands together, his face a mask of fear. Soon, the shouted instructions and quick-moving figures and strange beeping instruments had gone from the flat, taking Justin along with them, and the light was left alone in the dark apartment, with only the inaudible ticking of the wall clock for company.

***

End of Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

**611 – Wayward Mortal. (Chapter 11)**

* A few days later * December 2006

_Cease, cease, wayward Mortal! I dare not unveil_

_The shadows that float o'er Eternity's vale; _

_Nought waits for the good but a spirit of Love, _

_That will hail their blest advent to regions above._

_-Shelley_

Pittsburgh,

Allegheny General Hospital.

JUSTIN:

The chilly panes were touched with a thin caress of ice. Misting gently around the edges of the glass, it made them twinkle as the reluctant morning sun shone through them and gave them the appearance of the finest crystal. I stared out of the window at the naked tops of the trees, swaying frostily in the chill winter morning, gnarled fingers of branches twisting up, reaching for the distant spring. The sky was a cold heartless blue and the sound of choking motors struggling to start against the freezing metal in their engines drifted through the double glazing: varying sounds of vehicles, a dissonant dawn chorus of metallic coughing, and human swearing. I shivered slightly. I was fully dressed in a thick navy blue turtleneck jumper and jeans, and covered by my coat, but sitting still all night was taking its toll and I could feel my muscles cramping up. My hand rested gently atop Brian's on the neutral blue coverlet. He was motionless in the hospital bed beside which my chair was placed, on his back, perfectly still and symmetrical as if laid out in a coffin.

Except he was alive. He had lost consciousness shortly after they had brought him in; a buxom nurse had confided in me when I stopped her, desperate for information, that it was lucky I had found him when I did. After they had admitted him and attached him to a drip and given him the fluids and sugar and sodium and all the other things he had lost, they ran tests, finding out pretty quickly that he had Osteomyelitis.

***

"_He has WHAT?" I had said to the nurse, as I stood fretfully in the sterile corridor, hours after they had rushed Brian away. Shut out by the thick swinging doors beyond which they had taken him. She had folded her_ _antiseptic__ hands calmly. She was my only link to him and what was going on behind those hateful unsympathetic barriers. _

"_It is a form of bone infection, in this case caused by the trauma to his femur."_

_I had stared at her. "You mean the operation?"_

"_I'm afraid so, yes, Mr. Taylor. After the surgery to remove Mr. Kinney's cancer the bone, as it was healing, became contaminated with '__Mycobacterium tuberculosis'__, that's the TB virus. __Tuberculous__ Osteomyelitis is a dangerous suppuration, but whilst the __contamination __began in the bone marrow itself, it easily spreads to the bloodstream, causing a chronic and life-threatening infection. This probably would have been the cause of your boyfriend's nausea, fatigue and pain. Did he suffer from acute soreness or __attacks of fever and lassitude at all?_

_I struggled to unclench my throat. "He had pain, but we thought it was just the wound healing, and he had been undergoing chemotherapy, so we assumed the nausea and fatigue were normal…"_

"_Oh they are, Mr. Taylor. They are. It's not your fault. You couldn't have known. It really is unfortunate timing, to be sure." … "Oh he is alright, don't worry." She continued, seeing my worried face. "He is stable now and we are treating him. I think he will get through this one."_

_She gave me a sympathetic smile and patted my shoulder as I leant back against the wall for support. "However, we are going to have to keep him heavily sedated for a few days, to allow his body the best possible chance of fighting the infection. I will come and call you when we have transferred him to a room, if you don't want to go home tonight."_

_I nodded, my mouth paper-dry._

_Later that evening, after Debbie and the others had come and gone in a squawking, bustling cacophony of worry and hugs and caring looks, I stood silently in Brian's hushed room. Looking at his motionless figure, kept under the surface of consciousness by the concoction of drugs they were giving him through the brutal drip in his arm. Wanting to turn my head away and scream, punch something, hurt someone, break down and cry at the unfairness of it all. The gaping moon-like face of the clock outside in the corridor said it was late; visitors had clattered away hours ago, with their garish flowers and chatty optimism. But I had requested to stay, so I had been given a pillow and left alone as the hospital closed down for the night, soulless clinical hallways darkening with systematic clicks and the buzzing of electricity fizzling out. But the grey machine next to Brian's bed beeped steadily, quietly, telling no-one in particular that his heart was still beating. _

_If one has never seen a friend anesthetized or sedated, one cannot really fathom what a profoundly disturbing experience it is. To watch someone you love slipping out of his or her body until only the shell is left. It is nothing like watching them slumber, because with sleep you know that you can always touch their shoulder, or kiss their mouth, or shake water on their face and they will wake up, smiling, or annoyed, or grouchy. No. This is different, and profoundly horrible, and causes a deep innate panic because of the wrongness of seeing someone's mind, their personality, their consciousness unnaturally taken from them without their consent. _

***

And so I sat, two stiff nights later, as the cold morning sun wrestled its way into the hospital room and I watched the frost fading from the windows, melting in protesting droplets and trickling crookedly out of sight. Brian's hand was cool and slack under my own, and I traced the well-trimmed nails, the pale long fingers, the veined knuckles, before releasing it and easing myself up from the ghastly chair, wincing and shrugging off the blanket, folding it on the seat.

I came out into the corridor just as a nurse arrived to check up on Brian and renew his antibiotics and whatever the fuck else they were keeping him on. She smiled at me and took in my rumpled clothes, my scruffy appearance.

"Ain't you gonna go home at all then?"

I glanced back at Brian, motionless behind the small window of the door. "Not until he wakes up."

"Hmm." She nodded as she arranged the papers on her clipboard and the tubes on her trolley. "He's gonna be okay, y'know. The sedation is just a precautionary measure, to allow his body to heal without any further stress, understand?" She couldn't have been much older than me.

I forced a smile. "Yeah, I understand."

A couple of hours later Debbie turned up with bread and steaming soup in a flask which she made me eat, as if_ I_ were the sick one, and then she forced me to go home for a couple of hours to change my clothes and clean up. To be honest I needed it. Catching sight of myself in the bathroom mirror, I noticed my eyes, red and worried, the dark circles round my sockets, my unwashed hair. There was an anxious flush in my cheeks and my mouth had worked itself into a tight line. Turning away from the mirror, I showered and changed into fresh clothes, shoving a toothbrush into my bag, unwilling to stick around. The loft was so quiet. I couldn't stand it. I wanted to get back to Brian, incase… incase what? I had simply given up holding myself together, making it on my own. Finally, I knew truly with all my heart and soul that Brian meant everything to me and I wanted, I suppose, somewhere deep and hidden inside, to make up for all the lost time, to somehow say with my actions that I had made my choice, that I would be there however old or young or beautiful or flawed Brian was, through thick and through thin. _For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. _

***

Lindsey and Melanie's House.

DEBBIE:

Debbie was plumped on the sofa, a mound of colors and annoyed anxiousness. She watched as Lind and Mel pottered about getting the tea, they had absolutely refused to let her help, and wondered what the fuck God was playing at. Maybe there was a purpose to all of it. Maybe there was an order in the chaos… and it was chaos, because she never would have thought that Brian Kinney, the indestructible Brian Kinney, would get _cancer_, of all things. And so _young_. Debbie was still trying to believe that the beautiful, independent, unapologetic man she used to love and dislike and chide and who used to frustrate the hell out of her sometimes, was now shackled by an awful, murderous disease. It was like seeing a free, proud, wild animal broken torn and beaten in the ring; it wasn't fair, it went against everything she had known. She didn't even want to imagine what his scars looked like, the poor shit. Debbie sighed, maybe there _was_ a destined reason, but from where she was sitting right now, God was a cruel sadistic fuck.

An excited squeal pulled Debbie away from her thoughts; a now 3-year-old Jenny Rebecca was sitting in the middle of the floor, playing with a plastic ken doll who had just had his arm pulled off. Debbie tsked and watched as her grandchild stared at the injured toy in surprise before holding it up.

"Buddy is hurt!' She called out, running over to sit beside her Grandma, her little legs in their pink tights sticking straight out over the edge of the sofa. Deb smiled, calling out to the adults in the kitchen:

"You better watch out, JR is going to be a real heart-breaker! She has already started wrecking men!"

Then she smoothed the child's dark hair, and reassured her with pats on the back and cooing motherly words. "_It's all right, there there now honeybun, its gonna be fine, we'll fix him, you'll see…" _She had so missed having young kid, seeing their little innocent faces so open and earnest and …accepting, made her heart swell and the maternal itch start in her fingers and toes all over again. My, how she loved being a grandma. She wanted to pick them up and smother them with kisses and dote upon them and make sure no harm befell them. Ever. But she knew it didn't work like that; there was only so long parents are allowed to protect before they are gently pushed away by nature, and independence and growing up.

Suddenly, Debbie felt a small paw on her knee she glanced up at Gus, who was standing, quietly, looking old for his 6-and-a-half years. His green eyes were troubled and huge in his small face, and his hand resting on her knee was warm, bless his little heart. But Gus spoke before she had a chance to coo or cuddle him.

"Aunty Deb, is Dad gonna be okay?"

Debbie's heart immediately jumped into her throat, as she gazed at the quiet sage little boy in front of her, with his mop of brown hair and his pale clear skin and his small delicate eyebrows and his earnest expression. What could she tell him?

"Oh honey. Oh sweetheart. I don't know. …But don't you worry, your Dad is in real good hands, he's with people who are gonna help him, he's out of danger."

_For the moment,_ she thought, as she pulled Gus in and enveloped the scared little boy in a squashy cocooning hug, smoothing his silky cheek and kissing his floppy hair, blinking the tears from her eyes and sighing against the love that washed in waves through her. The poor little mite knew what was going on, bless his soul. He knew his Daddy was ill and was probably very confused and afraid. It is terrifying for a child have a parent, pillars of strength to their young eyes, fall, come crashing down and reveal they are not as stalwart and all-powerful as the child trusted they were. Gus's eyes were deep and soulful as he nodded sadly and turned away. Debbie had to hand it to the kid, he wasn't fussing or whining, just calmly unsettled, considerate little cherub. She wished she could re-assure him, reassure _herself_, but she couldn't. All she could do, unnaturally for her, was sit and wait …and hope.

When Mel and Linds came into the room with the tray of tea, Debbie was fondly watching JR, who, with pursed lips and wet little tongue sticking out the side of her cherry mouth, was holding the severed arm of Buddy doll to his side and clumsily attempting to wrap him in a floral handkerchief. The little girl was rocking gently, stroking the figurine, smoothing imaginary hair away from his shiny brow and Debbie suddenly picked up the soft words she was chanting to her toy:

"_You are not gonna hurt, coz I'm your Mommy. I'm your Mommy and I'm going to look after you because you are sick. I'm love you so you get better…"_

As Debbie placed a hand on her chest in emotion, JR looked up with a bright smile.

"Am I a good Mommy, Grandma? Look! I am going to love him because he is hurt!"

Debbie's words of praise caught in her throat, the onslaught of connections suddenly piling into her wigless head in tumbling revelations. Rising quickly, she caressed the cheery infant's chin before grabbing her bag, her eyes blurring. _She knew what she had to do._ Melanie bewilderedly asked something about not staying and Debbie excused herself hurriedly, kisses all round, wrapping up in her huge fluffy coat, inspired determination setting her mouth and making everything a whole lot easier. Deb was like a steam train, sometimes it took a while to build up speed, but once she was going she was unhindered and energetically focused. No more decisions to be made, no doubts scratching at the edges of her mind, no ifs or buts. So she bade a loving goodbye to the children and their surprised parents, and hustled out into the sharp shock of the cold, eyes screwed against the wind, head slightly apprehensive but heart as clear as diamond. _She knew whom she had to see._

***

Allegheny General Hospital.

JUSTIN:

"The good news…" said the neat male doctor who had come to fill me in "…is that Mr. Kinney has responded well to the chemotherapy. There are no signs of his cancer re-occurring in the area. Of course he will have to come in for regular screenings and check-ups, but for now we do not need to do anything further. So, we shall continue to concentrate on eradicating the Osteomyelitis, but I think we can safely bring him round this afternoon, considering his strength is growing and any risk of further complications to the area has been repudiated."

I could kiss him.

And a couple of hours later I paced the small space between the bottom of Brian's bed and the wall, biting my nails, waiting for the drugs they had given him to reverse the sedative to take effect. A nurse stood patiently in the corner, like a strange modified Greek statue, in a stiff white overall with so many contraptions hanging off it she looked like a kink master. A faint sound was uttered from the machine beside Brian's bed and she moved over to start checking switches and writing down things on her clipboard. After a minute I saw Brian's eyelashes flutter, and felt a rush of relief and happiness. I came over to stand beside her, watching his pale face for signs of life. The nurse was engrossed on fulfilling her purpose:

"Can you hear me, Mr. Kinney? You are in hospital. Please blink twice for me if you can hear me."

I saw the narrow slits of Brian's beautiful eyes squint against the light, but slowly and surely he blinked twice. The nurse contentedly murmured something I couldn't hear and smiled at me, stepping aside to let me closer to Brian before bustling out of the room. I suddenly felt nervous. _Why the fuck was I nervous?_ I felt like I was meeting him for the first time again, like I had to make a good impression… But then he looked at me, eyes growing accustomed to the brightness, and I forgot everything else, and felt my face split into a grin.

"Hey."

He couldn't turn his head much yet, the drugs were still wearing off, but his mouth twitched into a weak smile of what looked like relief. "Hey."

It was almost a whisper, but so familiar and wonderful to hear. As I stood there, motionless beside the bed, his eyes swept groggily over my face, taking in the circles under my eyes and when he next spoke, his voice was quiet and rough from lack of use.

"You don't have to be here."

My face was serious, and I looked straight at him. "No, I don't."

He seemed to understand my meaning, my quiet defiance and reassurance, and his eyes half closed as his head relaxed into the pillow. I tentatively put out my hand and slipped it into his.

"You scared me so fucking much."

His eyes darted to the ceiling as he recalled what had happened, and his lips drew in, in that adorable and so well-known gesture of his. When he looked back at me, it was with a mixture of apology and tiredness, which quickly turned into faint mischievous amusement:

"So, have I lost the other ball?"

I had to laugh, and the humor lightened the atmosphere as I lovingly shook my head. Then I couldn't help myself; I bent down to kiss him, wanting to clutch him and grasp him to me, crush his mouth against mine, hold him so tight I would never have to let him go. My lips ever so lightly brushed his, and I felt them opening slightly to let me in and kiss me back, somewhat chapped but pliable and familiar and _Brian_. His hand come up and found the back of my head; I was surprised at the tenderness of his touch, caressing the shorter hairs above my neck. _Everything would be okay. We were okay. Oh please may it be okay. _I kissed the corner of his mouth, his rough cheek, down his cheekbone and into his hair, and then we just held each other, surrounded by memories like so many swirling ghosts around us. I felt his warm breath on my skin as he chuckled weakly, his face tucked into the hollow between my shoulder and my neck, my hands holding his upper arms, muscles protesting from holding myself over the bed.

Eventually I pulled back, and Brian's eyes watched me, bottomless and fatigued, trying to communicate something unfathomable, and then when I smiled at him and stood back from the bed, they closed. I gently brushed the soft hair from his brow, thinking as I did so of all the times I had done the same thing, how well I knew that forehead, with it's smooth skin and slight traces of creases from when he raised his eyebrows. After so many years of drawing him, watching him, making love to him, I knew his body better than my own. We had learned every inch of each other. No wonder when I went to New York and had tried to forget him, I felt like I had left a part of me behind. Wasn't there some Persian philosopher once, Rumi, I think it was, who said, _"Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along."_ God knows if that was true… But Jean Toomer also said: _"We never know we are beings till we love. And then it is we know the powers and potentialities of human existence."_ And I agreed with that. Pulling myself out of my thoughts, I looked down at Brian whose breathing had become slow and even. The nurse swept back in and told me that he needed to sleep, that rest would give him the best chance of recovery, so I stood up, stretching and deciding to go and get some food from the canteen. Turning at the door, the flame of relief dancing in my heart, and seeing Brian's chest steadily rising and falling, his hair dark on the pillow; the words of the poet Philip Larkin came into my head with striking poignancy_: "What will survive of us is love."_

***

Pittsburgh

JOAN:

Joan Kinney closed her front door with a slow brittle click, her hand trembling slightly and pressed restrainedly to her side. Cautiously drawing back the lace curtain from the glass, she watched as the bright jacket of that Novotny lady disappeared down her manicured garden path and into the street. She swallowed. That it had to come to this, _again_. That _Debbie_ had to come and break the news that her own son was in hospital fighting for his life, was despicable. She felt a rush of anger at Brian's stubbornness, his indifference, his coldness towards her, when all she had ever tried to do was be a good mother. Of course she had known that his cancer had returned, even if he had not told her himself. Pittsburgh was a relatively small town after all. And she _had_ tried to visit him, but it had turned into another argument and she had left. It was his own fault anyway; not looking after himself, probably subjecting his body to all kinds of drink and drugs and… goodness knows what else. Joan's heart clenched into a fist. Was she really obliged to try and care for her son when every effort she had ever made had been rebuked, spurned, kicked in her face?

Catching sight of herself in the wall mirror in the hall, Joan readjusted her tense line of a mouth and turned to go through into the kitchen. She opened the cupboard, to the right of the stove, and got out a glass. Then she picked up the friendly bottle of blood-red sherry, holding both as she sat down at the table and kept her back very straight. She needed a drink. Her son had cancer, and no matter how much she despised what he did, she couldn't prevent the tendrils of heart-wrenching sorrow and terror from creeping into her chest. But as she poured the deep thick crimson liquid out of the lips of the decanter, she felt chills running up her spine. _Brian had been_ _vomiting blood, they said. _The glass crashed to the floor as Joan shrank back, a cry of disgust rising in her throat, wringing her hands.

She felt something break inside her, and wondered what it was. And then she found tears welling up in her eyes. Scalding, terrified, unfamiliar tears, aching from lack of use, pulling open her emotions against her will like a tidal wave through floodgates. _Her boy. Her little boy who had such pretty eyes as he was growing up. Who had always been so quiet. Who had almost invited her to ignore him, with his quietness. _Why had he pushed her away, oh why? Joan stood in the middle of her kitchen staring at the drops of red on the austere white linoleum floor. Then she decided to take Debbie's unspoken hint, to go and see him, go and visit her son in hospital like the good Christian mother she was. As she gathered her gloves and slipped an unsympathetic scarf around her neck, the thoughts kept playing over and over in her head. She had made it clear to Brian that he disgusted her, engaging in vile acts of lewdness with another man was forbidden in the Bible, and yet he still refused to do the normal thing, still went against the grain. Stupid, willful son of hers. Why anyone would continue to do something so unquestionably sickening was a mystery to her, but now the possibility that she might lose him cut strange and cold through her disappointment in him. No, she was going to the hospital.

With that, Joan swept her eyes over the empty house, the upturned glass lying on the ground leaking sherry, she would clean up later, took her bag from its perch on the hat stand, and walked out through the door, shutting it with a slow brittle click behind her.

***

Allegheny General Hospital

When she arrived at the foreboding glass doors of the reception, Joan almost turned around and went home. Brian wouldn't want to see her. He never wanted to see her. But then she realized she wasn't going for him, she was going for herself, to… to what? Joan didn't know why, but she knew she wanted to fulfill some ancient social convention; as a mother she was obliged to at least go and see her offspring. That's what she wanted to think, because it blocked out the nagging maternal feeling in her gut. An excuse of propriety was as good an excuse as any. Once inside, she went to the reception, from where she was directed to the ward, and room, Brian was in.

Walking down the corridors, the afternoon light filtering in through half-closed blinds and the smell of sickness making her blanch and turn her face away, Joan wondered whether she had made a mistake; but then she turned a corner and saw Debbie standing in conversation with a doctor, with her son Michael nearby. Joan stood, momentarily nervous, looking at the entrance to Brian's room. As she watched, a young man came out, smiled at Debbie who absently rubbed his back, and exchanged a few words with the white-coated physician. Joan's eyes followed him. That was a face she had seen before: the short blonde hair, the intelligent blue eyes, the blossoming smile, it was all nigglingly familiar. And then she saw him nod and head in her direction, his head was down in thought, and she suddenly remembered with a jolt of disappointment and shock where she had seen him. As he raised his head and suddenly saw her, Joan's mouth was once again in a thin line. The young man stopped in front of her, slightly surprised, his expression wary.

"Hello, Mrs. Kinney."

Joan looked up at him, trying unsuccessfully to marry the image of this sophisticated individual with the despicable acts in which she knew he had engaged with her son. "Hello."

"I ..uh.. don't know If you remember me, Mrs. Kinney, I'm Justin, Justin Taylor…"

"I know who you are. I saw you in the apartment. That was along time ago, wasn't it? I would have thought you had moved on. Isn't that what you... people do?"

The man's eyes registered shock, then hurt, then mature restraint in a series of quick successions, and Joan had a sudden feeling what she had said had not been very nice, but she did not take it back, because she was unaccustomed to taking anything back. But she forced herself to meet his eyes, which grew thoughtful as he struggled for what to say.

"Brian's through there, Mrs. Kinney. He was asleep when I left, the doctors only just stopped the sedative today. Excuse me."

And with that, he slipped past her. Joan turned to watch his back as he pushed open the twin doors, joining up with Debbie and heading towards the canteen. He looked so normal. He was a handsome man, and his eyes… Joan shivered as she thought of the sad wisdom in those eyes, and again considered about her comment. She had never had a civilized conversation with a … she was so unused to saying the word… homosexual before, apart from her son of course, although she could hardly call their rare tense exchanges civilized. It was rather a shock to her to see this lover of Brian's was so… human.

Shaking off the thought, Joan went to the edge of her son's door and looked in. He was asleep as that Justin had predicted, and he looked… so ill. Joan wanted to look away, because she knew she was in danger of succumbing to the intense frustration that boiled inside her. _Why couldn't have been a good little boy? _She fought the urge however, and moved to the base of Brian's bed, looking down at his pale arm resting on the coverlet. _Was this the boy she raised?_ Suddenly, with an impulsive shrinking sensation, Joan turned and walked out, her courage failing her. Hurrying past the numerous visitors and nurses and wards and cold glass doors out to the main entrance, where she sat down on a visitor's bench. It was cool and spacious in the lobby and the vague non-committal chatter around her was strangely comforting. Joan wished she had something to drink, but her throat was so tight she felt she would choke. She pursed her lips and remembered the last time she had seen Brian asleep like that…

_Screaming. Taunting. Crash. Harsh goading cries followed by dull thudding. She was crying, pulling a skinny arm with a strength spurred on by adrenaline. Yanking Brian's small scared frame round the other side of the door, hearing Jack's dull curses through the wood, unfocused in his intoxication. Turning to the shaking little boy next to her. She could feel his heart beating frantically, pounding against his small chest and she walked upstairs, told him to follow. Found the medicine cabinet, switched on the bathroom light. Saw the small boy covered in blood. Gash to his lip, cut on his forehead, scrape on his bruised arm. His eyes followed her silently, purplish rings of swelling growing already. Normally she was quicker than this. Most of the time she could get him into bed before anything happened. Claire was a good girl. She was already asleep. But Brian, Brian was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Restless little boy. Too intelligent for his 6 years. Too quiet for a hurt child. She cleaned his cuts, chiding him for being in the living room this late, and sent him to bed with a quick embrace. She had to get back downstairs and see what Jack had smashed. But later she slipped into his quiet room, watching his still form in the blurry darkness, ignoring the guilt in her chest. Making out the dark shadow of his hair on the pillow, the slight smudges where his cuts had bled under their plasters, the clean trails where his tears had found their way down his cheeks. Then she turned and went to bed._

The ticking of the clock cut through Joan's thoughts. Glancing up at it she saw she had been sitting on the hard plastic bench a long time. Pulling her scarf closed around her throat, Joan moved away and out the door. Brian wouldn't appreciate her being here. When had he _ever_ appreciated her presence? But as she passed the reception she heard her name called out, and, looking up, found Debbie coming towards her. Just what she needed. Some lunatic new-age woman with silver gray hair covered in colored grips and a ghastly floral top, who thought she knew Brian better than his own mother. But she waited resignedly as Debbie put a hand on her arm, making her flinch a little at the contact, and spoke quietly in a rich motherly voice.

"He doesn't hate you, you know."

Joan felt herself flush. "I know, thank you Debbie. It has just… never been easy between us. I don't want…"

"Bullshit." Mrs. Novoty's eyes were slightly amused as she watched Joan's shocked expression. Then she became serious. "Joan. A mother has a bond with her children. And even if that has been messed up, even if there are years of arguments and resentment under the bridge, there's always a chance to start again. It's a family's god-given right."

Joan stared at her, overpowered by the other lady's strong musky perfume which wafted around them and seemed to burrow up her nose and into her eyes. Debbie watched her for a moment before smiling. "Go and see your son, Mrs. Kinney, ...Joan. Don't throw away something you will live to regret."

With that she stepped back, and Joan felt a slight freedom come into her heart. Strange and immoderate as that Novotny lady may be, she did say some thought-provoking things. Glancing at the gathering dark outside, Joan managed a weak smile at Debbie, and then she slowly headed back towards Brian's room as if pulled by a string. Not quite believing that that madwoman had managed to get her to go back, she re-traced her steps through he emptying corridors. She would probably embarrass herself by being repudiated by Brian, by becoming angry at his fickle disregard for god or society's laws…

She reached the room before she knew it, and shrank back in the hall, peering through the small glass window in the door. The sight that met her eyes both physically jolted her heart and sent a spasm of pain through her arms.

Brian was asleep, lying much the same as she had left him, his face bloodless and his body thin under the blankets, but his hand was resting idly in the short hair of the young man she had seen earlier, Justin, his name was. The blonde was also asleep, in a chair beside her son's bed, his head resting on his arms on the covers. The whole image struck her as so … loving. It took her breath away for a moment. The quiet affection and warmth which emanated from the bed shot into the depths of her soul and for the first time she looked, really looked, finding her disgust slipping away despite itself and the tears welling in her eyes. Never had she thought a gay relationship could be like this. She watched as Justin's back rose and fell with his slumbering breaths, Brian's hand tenderly in his hair, his body close as possible to his partner's in the bed.

Joan heard a sigh beside her, and found Debbie standing there, gold sparkly bag clutched in her hand. "It's touching to see, ain't it?" She said, her eyes fixed on the scene in the hospital room.

Joan nodded, her mouth quivering, and Debbie continued in a hushed voice; "Justin has hardly left his side, y'know. Been here every night, even when he was unconscious. But then again, he always was a determined little fucker. ...Oh excuse my language Joan. I can call you Joan can't I?"

But Joan was looking at the gentle companionship in front of her and wishing some heterosexual relationships would have this level of unmistakable loyalty. What angered and shocked her the most was that she was not feeling repulsed by seeing two men in love. It just felt so …right, and Joan was very scared by what she was feeling, what she was realizing, what she was questioning. It made her furious. It made her want to weep. It made her stay and gaze at Brian and Justin's quiet forms for a long moment before she took her leave of Debbie and quietly left the hospital.

***

End of Chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

**  
**612 – Healing Wings (Chapter 12)

* A week later * December 2006

_Love, from its awful throne of patient power__  
__In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour__  
__Of dread endurance, from the slippery, steep,__  
__And narrow verge of crag-like agony, springs__  
__And folds over the world its healing wings.__  
__- P. B. Shelley_

The Loft  
BRIAN

Brian slid the heavy metal of the door aside and walked into the loft, slinging his bag down on the counter before halting and absently taking off his coat, looking across the huge room. What had caught his attention was over beside the bedroom, in front of the television: a big easel was set up, facing away from the door so Brian could not see what sat on it, but he could see Justin, who was half turned away, a feverish glow flushing his cheeks and his expression hostile and desperate. Brian stood for a moment longer, watching the younger man's arm around the canvass, sometimes supported by his other hand. He was so beautiful when he was inspired; his pale hair was tousled and his eyes were so dark they looked like two frantic oceans. But the mess! There were open paint cans and tubes littered around the easel, paintbrushes were scattered across the floor, and a few failed attempts on canvasses were jutting out from their leaning-place against an armchair.

Brian took off his hat and ran his hand through his shorter hair. He had gotten it cut on the way home, a way to make the chunks that fell out in his hands less noticeable. The doctors had told him that he was lucky. _"Sometimes chemo patients can lose ALL their hair. In your case the alopecia is mild and it will all grow back again soon!"_ Gee thanks, doc. Toeing off his shoes and leaving them by the entrance, Brian moved further into the apartment. If Justin had heard him come in he gave no indication of it, and Brian progressed slowly, cautious of Justin's fragile mood.

"Someone's been busy."

A grunt. Brian pulled his lips into his mouth, aware that something was wrong, but unsure as to how he could help.

"You'd better not get any of that shit on my floor."

Justin looked up with a halfhearted smile and Brian saw with a jolt that his eyes were red-rimmed. He had been crying. Brian took a step forward, making to walk around the easel.

"No!" Justin's hand was on his chest, shoving him backwards.

The blonde was wearing a pair of faded jeans that were too tight and fairly ripped, and a black sweater that was too big and hung down over his ass. All of him was covered in paint. Old paint, new paint, dry paint, wet paint. His hand, quickly withdrawn, was smeared with dry remnants of a desecrated rainbow. Brian stood still, surprised by Justin's sudden movements, looking down at him and wondering what was going on. It was a long time since he had seen Justin this wired. The younger man was avoiding his gaze, wringing his hands. Brian, for a lack of anything else to do, reached out a hand to touch Justin's shoulder, earning him a look of fury and an angry slap away.

"Don't touch me!"

Then a softening, an apologetic expression. "I'm sorry, Bri. I'm not angry at YOU, I just… You can't see it. I … can't show it to you. I never should have done it. Fuck, look, I'm sorry about the mess, I'll clean it up now…"

Brian, seeing Justin's hesitation, cut him off. "Sunshine. Whatever it is, I'm sure I can handle it. Now stop being a fucking princess and let me see the picture."

Justin bit his lip, and then turned on his heel and walked back behind the easel, facing the canvas, his expression resigned. After a pause, Brian went and joined him. When he stood next to his partner and looked at the painting, it was all he could do not to huff in his breath in shock. They both stood gazing at the monstrosity before them for a minute before Brian spoke.

"Shit, Justin. This… "

"Yeah."

"I had no idea. This is what you feel?"

A choked voice "Sometimes."

Brian was silent again, willing himself to turn away from the transfixing intensity of torment which radiated out of the slashed brush strokes of the painting. So full of desperation, and fear, and wailing anger were the vague shapes which dotted the dark surface, whilst behind there loomed what Brian could only describe as the most fucking disturbing use of paint he had ever seen. There were no particular shapes or entities on the canvass, but the very layers of color, and the angles that jutted in desperate reaching shards, and the swirling trapped unfair colors that fought to find peace but failed, were all so emotive it took his breath away. Justin sure had a way with art, Lindsey was right about that. Brian swallowed, knowing the reason for this overwhelming fear and desperation. Himself. The fucking cancer. Pittsburgh. Between which and New York Justin was trapped like a lost soul, unsure of where to go, what to do.

He turned to look at Justin, who had no words, only met his eyes with a look of dejected surrender. No more façade, no more pretending it's all right. Brian forced down the guilt boiling in his chest and moved forward in one swift movement, enveloping the lithe body in his arms. He pushed his nose into Justin's neck, breathing the scent of his sweat. Then he felt Justin's shoulders shaking with silent sobs and he held him tight, and tighter, and wove his fingers into the hair on the back of Justin's head and wished with all his heart he could just take it away, reverse time, fuck Justin until the other man was gasping and grinning, take back all the trials and worries. When Justin was motionless, the two stayed in the embrace for a while longer, before Justin pulled back and wiped his nose on his already filthy sleeve, smiling ruefully. Then he frowned.

"Hey, You've cut your hair!"

Stroking the shorter locks with long pale fingers, Justin sniffed and shook his head. Laughing slightly at his queen-out. But Brian wasn't laughing. He looked down at where Justin's hand was grasped in his, before taking a breath and frowning.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. And don't even try to assume that it is, Brian."

"I wouldn't force you to stay."

Justin's eyes were clear as he slid his arms around Brian's neck and kissed him on the cheek.

"You never have."

***

* A couple of days later*

The diner  
DEBBIE:

Debbie handed a customer his order with a smile in the newly decorated diner. Festooned with her usual enthusiasm, it glittered with multi-colored furnishings and Christmas lights, not to mention the embarrassed looking plastic elves in dubious positions wherever one turned. The small Christmas tree in the corner twinkled merrily, although it was the middle of the day. The counter sported green and red paper chains and even the new paintings Justin had recently donated were draped with gaudy gold tinsel. _"They wouldn't have sold anyway …too personal. I want you to have them."_ He had said. AS IF. Debbie wasn't fooled. She knew it was Justin's big heart making that excuse to avoid her insisting on paying for them. And they sure as hell were worth paying for. Three large canvasses, full of a raised rocky consistency and a multitude of minute splashes of deep vibrant colors. They matched to an extent, meant to be a triad to hang next to each other. Within the undulating surface were patches of level canvas where figures were picked out in smoother brushstrokes; swirling murals in the rough texture. Vague scenes of people, interaction, emotion… Debbie wasn't sure she wanted to understand or look closer at the little tableaux, it seemed somehow an intrusion. After all, they _were_ very personal, as Justin had said. But it sure made for good art, and she got compliments for it almost daily. The young man's success made her smile; she had always known he had it in him. The talent, the fearlessness, the unfathomable strength and courage that always blew her away but she had been careful to hide.

It seemed Justin had grown up so fast. She still remembered the hyperactive youth who had reluctantly sat down with Michael that first night… (he still had an ass to die for, Debbie thought with a chuckle, although she expected he didn't know it.) The natural fair hair had brightened up the room and warmed her heart, but not as much as his blinding smile when she later got to see it. Boy, that was one of the most pure, heartfelt, contagious smiles she had ever had the good luck to encounter. When it was turned on you it was like the sun shining into your heart… Sunshine really was a good nickname for him, she mused, her own mouth curling at the memory. But that smile had not always graced the young face: so many hardships, almost too many to be real, had piled up against the poor teenager. Perhaps Justin had changed little by little, Debbie mused. She remembered no defining day when he became the confident man he was. Events changed people, for better and for worse, and it still baffled Debbie how Justin had come through his problems so mature, so wise, so grounded.

Speaking of the devil… Debbie looked up to see a familiar blonde head come in through the door, shaking off errant flakes of wet snow. She absently shoved her gum into the bin before hurrying forward to bury the young man in her embrace.

"Sunshine!"

She felt his huff of laughter and realized with a jolt that he was actually taller than she was. Bang goes the mental image of her baby, her little Justin, she thought, feeling the wetness of his coat seeping through her top and pulling back with a loving look. The deep blue eyes sparkled and Justin grinned at her, which of course it made her laugh, damn that smile was infectious! Debbie stepped away and brushed the remaining melting bits of ice off his coat.

"So, what'll it be, hunny? This one's on me, Christmas spirit an' all!"

Justin gave an appreciative laugh. "Thanks Deb. Uhh... I'll have a coffee and your pancakes with syrup?"

Debbie nodded with pleasure. Thank God he still ate like a horse. She had always loved Justin's appreciation of her food… how he stayed so slight she would never know but she was mighty glad to see that after 2 years, some things had not changed. Bustling off to the kitchens, she caught Ted entering the diner and gave him a hearty wave, which he returned before going to sit by Justin in one of the booths. Her boys. Pride wasn't the word for what she felt seeing them all in Pittsburgh, healthy, happy, home. Ted gave his order to the new waitress and Debbie had to attend to other customers, but when Justin and Ted's orders came up (Ted had a turkey sandwich) she whisked them from the kitchen and took them over herself, sitting down for a minute beside the two men.

"Have you heard about the Mr. Universe contest at Pulse?" Ted was saying.

Brian had at last decided to sell Babylon when a worthwhile offer had been made, and Pulse was the new gay bar that had taken the place it had left. It was a fairly highbrow establishment, not too grimy or overcrowded, the same standard as Babylon had been. The management brought in various entertainments and hosted some intriguing contests which always promised to be a show, no matter how dubious the title. Indeed the building was bigger than the old club had been, and therefore roomier, making for a comfortable evening, or fuck, or dance, or whatever you felt like doing. The fags and dykes of Pittsburgh had, as usual, hardly batted an eyelid at the swift change of leading establishment… as long as the thumpa thumpa continued, no one gave a toss about where.

Debbie watched fondly as her boys tucked into their meals, chatting about nothing in particular.

Justin was grinning into his pancakes. "Brian wants to buy Gus a bike for his birthday… he was looking at them online yesterday. Do you KNOW how much kids bikes cost nowadays? Its insane!" He dropped his hand to the handle of his cup. "Mind you, I don't think anything can shock me that much after the apartment rentals in New York. I have become economically desensitized."

Ted chuckled. "Ahh, that's never a good thing to be. Before you know it your assets are pulling you into the closet and your expenditures are tying you up while the stock market sits on your head."

"That's a bit TOO kinky, Ted. Even for _you_."

All three heads looked up to see Brian standing by their booth, in gray pants and a white shirt, his jacket and overcoat slung over one arm, and other hand holding his briefcase.

"Brian, hunny!' Debbie always wondered why seeing him gave her a little warm happy feeling in her heart. "What brings you to the lowly diner?"

Brian sat down next to Justin, planting a quiet kiss on his partner's cheek before placing his coat behind him on the back of the seat and answering Deb.

"I had some business to attend to."

At this point Debbie saw his quick look shared with Ted and decided something was going on. Justin was finishing off his pancakes and didn't seem to have noticed. She decided to let it be, for the moment, and took out her notepad with a silent tsk and a bright smile at Brian.

"So, what'll it be for the workaholic?"

He pulled in his lips and frowned slightly, recalling the menu, a twinkle in his eye. Justin put down his cutlery on his empty plate and glanced at Brian.

"The pancakes are really good today!"

This earned him an amused look. "Weren't you eating DIY hot fudge sundae and a doughnut when I left the loft uh… 4 hours ago?"

Pause. A cheeky nod. A grin. Brian sighed, doing an impersonation of incredulous and condescending parent.

"I don't know where you put it all."

"Oh, I have many secret places to stash it in…"

"Don't I know it."

They were smiling teasingly at each other. Deb rolled her eyes, those two. Getting it on in the diner. Again. They really _were_ insatiable. And very cute.

Ted coughed and cleared his throat. "Okaaay, guys, get a room! Take it someplace else! Take it…"

"To the sheets?" Brian finished with a grin.

Ted stared at him blankly for a moment before suddenly remembering and nodding into his coffee with a defeated smile. Debbie leaned over to check if she were needed in the kitchen, but no new customers had come in and the other waitresses were doing a bang-up job. So she settled herself more comfortably and folded her arms across her bosom. Brian's tiny smirk continued.

"Hey, Deb? I think I _will_ have the pancakes. I feel like celebrating." He stuck his tongue in his cheek and feigned indifference.

Debbie waved a waitress over and gave his order, then turned back to the table.

"Celebrating what, sweetie?"

"I've just come from the hospital. They can't be sure I'm out of the woods, apparently, but the nuking they have done so far has worked. Sooo…No more puking my guts out at 3 in the morning… no more looking like I need to be put in the 'whites' laundry wash… no more having huge needles shoved up my arms every week. I have officially finished chemo."

Brian finished and twiddled a toothpick as he continued to smirk, and when he looked at Justin, who had been sitting quiet and still up till then, the blonde suddenly rose up and threw his arms around him, almost knocking him back. Debbie couldn't see either of their faces, but she had to swallow a choke in her throat, and silently offered up a tentative thanks to whoever was up there making things alright, if there was anyone. Then her words came bubbling up as Brian and Justin broke apart, no words exchanged, no conversation needed, only looks and touches.

"Brian, hunny! That's really great. I am so happy for you! Here, those pancakes are on the house too! Oh, this is the best Christmas present anyone could give me! To see you on the mend…"

Debbie clasped her hands, unable to say anything more, and gazed delightedly at Brian, his beautiful profile as he turned to Ted after thanking her with a nod and a quiet glance. Then suddenly Justin shot up, looking at his watch and cursing.

"Shit! I've go to run! I said I would meet Lindsey at an exhibition! Excuse me everyone! Deb, thanks for the pancakes! Bye Ted!" He stepped out from the booth and paused, resting a hand on Brian's shoulder. "I'll see you later?"

Brian nodded. "Later."

After Justin had left the diner, Debbie decided it was time she continued with her work and let the two boys to get on with it. She did notice however, as she bussed tables and cleared up spilled sugar and served hot drinks to chilled customers, that Ted was showing Brian a document, and the two were talking intently together. Then Brian reached down and pulled some papers from his briefcase, shuffling them into order before handing them over to Ted, who perused them quickly, nodding as Brian earnestly explained something to him.

***

JUSTIN POV:

As I wandered about the exhibition with Lindsey, I couldn't help mentally punching the air in glee and relief every so often. Brian had finished chemo! Brian would get better! He would get stronger and we wouldn't have to worry about sickness, or pain, or sleepless nights or fainting… Jesus fucking Christ, the walls of the gallery seemed too small to contain my relief. I wanted to run back to him and hug him so hard he laughed like he always does, before berating me and teasing me about it for days. Lindsey was good company; she shared my passion for art so it was always a pleasure to go to openings with her. This one she had heard about from a friend. A modern artist, originally from Los Angeles, showing a series of award winning canvasses in an empty room of the local gallery. Although quirky, they were very good. Once I got used to his style, which, if one did not specifically follow was rather confusing, I found myself mesmerized by his almost constant use of dark backgrounds and thin neon lines to outline dynamic shapes.

I felt Lindsey's hand in the small of my back. "I'm going to go over and talk to Gertrude. Are you okay to finish looking around?"

I nodded and turned back to the paintings as she crossed to the other side of the room to talk to an old acquaintance. After 2 or 3 canvases, I reached one which gave my stomach that strange jolt, and made my hands and feet tingle with anticipation while my cock stirred. Much like my old sketches of Brian had done. It was vague in outline, but the sexual energy radiating off it was intoxicating, surging with an intensity that made me swallow and turn away, breathing out with a small smile.

With Brian sick, neither of us has been up to much. Sure, he has sucked me off, and tried to make up for his weakened state, and it made my heart ache to see how much he hated his limitation. But he just did not have the strength. During the first bout of cancer, not having sex had pulled us closer, had forced us to really see each other, forced us to listen instead of fuck and, I hope, had made him realize that I loved him no-matter what. We'd shared more, because we'd sat and talked and held each other. This time was the same. One day I had been curled on the sofa, looking through some old photos of him and Mikey, when a brown envelope had fallen out onto my lap. Intrigued, I had opened the age-worn seal and pulled out… the most amazing set of photographs I had ever seen. They were of various things, a birthday cake with out-of focus figures in the background, a Pittsburgh streetlamp, a set or iron railings… but they were taken with such artistic ingenuity, the unusual focal points, the concentration on reoccurring patterns, making the magical from the mundane.

_I had held them out to Brian, who was walking through from the bathroom, a glass of water in his hand. ___

_"What're these?"___

_He took them from me when he reached the sofa and looked at them for a moment whilst standing there. Then he sighed and plopped down on the sofa beside me, drawing his lips into his mouth, shuffling through the collection of photographic masterpieces. He reached one in particular and contemplated it for a while. Looking over his shoulder, my hand resting affectionately on his thigh, I saw it was of a collection of beer bottles, some empty, some half full, some overturned and one of two smashed. They were on a table, wet with spilt booze, and the background was out of focus, only the vague outline of a dresser was visible. It was an emotive image, and slightly disturbing in it's own right. Brian was still looking at it absently, then he spoke.___

_"I took this when I was 16." He said. "I sneaked downstairs in the early hours of the morning, after Jack had a rare home booze-up and before Joan could sweep it under the rug. The old fucker had already gone upstairs and passed out on his bed, so I took my camera and…" He fell silent, giving a short cold laugh, and passing the photo to me.___

_I stared at it. "My God, Brian. YOU took these? These are… amazing! These aren't just photos, these are art!"___

_"Why thank you, Picasso."___

_I hit him in the chest with the back of my hand. "Seriously. You could have applied to any art or photography course you wanted with these! They are so… intense!"___

_Brian shrugged. "I'm better ad man then I would have been a photographer."_

_I had taken the pack of photos from him and sifted through them, feeling his hand playing through my hair and reveling in yet another side to him I had not known about. The amazing thing about Brian Kinney is that he is always capable of surprising you, no matter how long you have known him, or how well you think you have got him sussed. That unpredictability, the streak of the untamable beast was still running strong in him, and I liked it. He kept his past fairly private, I knew that, and he certainly did not like to talk about Jake or Joan Kinney. This new revelation, to a side of him I had not known about, excited me beyond my wildest dreams, and gave me a powerful feeling of closeness to him. _

I smiled to myself. The past few months had been nice, awful but nice. Calm and contented, and nice because Brian and I were so close …and not through sex. But enough was enough. I wanted to get fucked. And I fucking knew that I didn't want anyone to do it but him. I had been so pre-occupied, I had hardly thought about it for so long, and now I realized that I missed it. So fucking much. Nothing else was good enough. I was so horny in that gallery, like I had found myself more frequently over the past few weeks, as Brian got stronger and the crushing worry and fear had been lifted gradually from my chest. Nothing was satisfying me anymore. I just wanted Brian back. My insatiable, fuck anyplace, any time Brian. It was almost a physical craving, a desperation to reach those levels of abandon again and lose myself back in his sweat, and smell, and the feel of him inside and around me. I knew people would probably say it was just because I missed having sex and that was true, because fucking has always been a huge part of our relationship. It had all begun with sex, when I was a nervous youth underneath the yellow streetlight, nothing but prey in his eyes, it had caused problems and solved them, it had kept us grounded when either of us wanted to fly off the rails. But that wasn't the reason. More than anything I missed having that intimate connection with him, feeling him moving in me, touching his skin and having him set mine on fire, looking into his eyes as our pleasure grew in perfect unison, his sweaty hair falling onto his forehead, breathing in his scent, clutching his strong arms, my nails digging into his flesh. Feeling how our bodies fitted together perfectly, how we moved incomplete sync and reveling in how well we knew the language of each other's sounds and actions. That was why it couldn't just be a dildo or any old stud. I didn't want an orgasm. I wanted _Brian_.

***

Pittsburgh  
JOAN:

Joan sat in her empty living room, staring at a photo frame held in her hand. In the photo, a younger Jack Kinney stood with his hand on her shoulder, whilst Brian and Claire sat on the grass in front of them. The perfect family shot. A lovely one to show to the relatives and friends when they came round. How little they knew. How much a good lens and the right positioning could hide. Joan took a sip from the glass of water beside her. Little Brian. He didn't look older than 13. Had he been… already, then? She guessed she had been too busy to notice. She had always been too busy to notice. Joan realized with a jolt that she did not know what kind of man her child was. All she had ever experienced was the brick wall, the cold retaliation to her own hardness. She had lost a son.

***

Pittsburgh  
JUSTIN:

I woke on Saturday to find myself alone in the bed. From the looks of the winter sunlight streaming through the slats of the bedroom, I guessed it was mid morning and silently cursed, swinging my bare legs over the side and pulling on a pair of black pants and a maroon V-neck top which I knew was a little too tight but didn't really care. Ignoring the icy chill which crept around my toes from the flagstone floor, I padded barefoot to the entrance of the bedroom and looked around for Brian, running one hand groggily through my hair. I knew I looked a mess in the mornings: my haircut, although short, was rather shaggy at the best of times and stuck up in various places. Brian had always taken a devilish delight in my bed hair. He liked to muss it and tease me when it didn't behave. In fact he was the only person I simultaneously felt totally relaxed with and yet knew he would never flatter or praise me unduly. He always said things as they were, never lied. He would always be straight with me if I looked like shit and that brought a great sense of trust.

Brian was sitting on the sofa, his laptop open on the coffee table, electric lead trailing to the socket by the computer desk. He was wearing a dark gray top and jeans, his back was half towards me and I saw with a warm surge in my stomach the oh-so-familiar curve of his shoulders, the way his chestnut hair tickled the nape of his neck, just above the collar of the sweater. He was leant forward reading something, before reaching for the mouse and clicking, obviously focused on what he was doing.

I came down the steps of our bedroom and crossed over to the kitchen area. He heard me and cocked his head round to give me a brief smile, his intelligent eyes thoughtful and preoccupied. God I loved him so much. I smiled back as I put the kettle on and popped two pieces of toast in the toaster.

"You should've woken me up. It's really late."

"It's only 10:30, Sunshine. And besides…" Brian raised an eyebrow teasingly as he craned his head to look at me. "I thought I'd let you get your beauty rest."

I laughed and then the toast pinged and I buttered it and put it on a plate, taking a bite as I meandered over to where Brian was typing. He had moved the computer to his lap and was concentrating on it thoughtfully. I rounded the sofa, and put my plate down beside me as I sat down on the coffee table in front of him, grinning. When he closed his laptop with a snap and looked at me, I leant forward to kiss away the crease between his eyes.

"Whatcha doing? It's Saturday, you don't have to work!" I leaned forward and sympathetically squeezed his shoulder. "You know the doctor said to take it easy, and I'm sure Kinnetik will do fine with Ted there to…"

Brian cut me off. "It's not Kinnetik."

When I peered at him, I saw that familiar look in his eye; the look that meant he had something important to say which was hard for him so he tried to hide his feelings. The clouded, silent look I had come to understand so well. As I waited, Brian drew his lips into his mouth and looked down at his hand where it lay still on the closed computer. Then he took a sudden deep breath and looked me straight in the eye.

"I'm finalizing my will."

Everything went deathly quiet. I could hear the blood thumping in my ears and a tingling coldness flew to my fingers and toes. For a second no words came out. I looked into his beautiful eyes, watching me quietly. Trusting, expectant… vulnerable.

"What? ... Brian. You don't need to do that. The doctors said you were going to be okay. … You are going to be okay aren't you?"

"Don't worry Sunshine, it's called a living will. It's just a precaution. You should have one too, you know."

I wasn't buying it. "Why are you doing this now?"

Brian's face remained impassive. "Because I want to. Because, if anything does happen to me…"

"Like what?"

"Like the cancer comes back. Don't look at me like that Sunshine. We both know it's a much greater possibility now."

My hand was still on his cool forearm and I kept quiet, staring at him. Glancing away, Brian laid his other hand over mine and continued.

"As I was saying, in case anything happens to me, I don't want the government getting their sticky hands on my money, so, I've dictated what's to go where."

Biting his lip, Brian looked up at me, seemingly deliberating whether or not to say what he wanted to say next, and I saw the side of him I had struggled to get to for years. The side of him I had seen a lot more of recently, indeed since the first bout of cancer. The true Brian Kinney. The shy, unaffected, sincere, hidden man who was so generous to those he loved, who bought the new name for Vic Grassi House, who let me comfort him when he was feeling shitty, who was able to acknowledge his feelings and was unafraid to let them show, who spooned himself around me without questions when I used to wake screaming from a nightmare. Those first few years I had been so determined to break down the barriers, I had become frustrated when I couldn't, when Brian had brushed me off and returned to his snarky self, his shield. I suppose that was partly what drove me to leave him for Ethan. I was so impatient to get what I wanted, for my own selfish needs, for my own ego, I had failed to see the reasons for Brian's inability to open up, to keep himself hidden.

But as I sat on the coffee table, I knew that had gradually changed. I liked to think it was because of me, because I had finally gained his full emotional trust, that he had finally accepted I wasn't going to leave him in the dirt if he let himself love me. But who was I kidding? I had been away for over a year! What kind of a signal does that send, I wondered. No, I believed it was also the cancer, cliché as it sounds. It's amazing how much of a wake-up call a brush with death can be. I figured Brian probably had it shoved in his face that if he didn't say and do the things he wanted to right away, he might never get to. And so he had let me caress his hair, and smiled at me when I came back from the diner, and hugged me from behind when I least expected it. Not in a crude sexual way, where all emotion was unnecessary and we could lose ourselves in the bestial physicality. In an affectionate, companionable way, which held no pretence, no alibi of a fuck, only love. No apologies, no excuses, no regrets.

I was brought out of my thoughts when Brian sucked in a breath and continued, his eyes resting uneasily on the glass of the table.

"I've allocated a certain amount to Lindsey in the event of my death, and of course Gus will get an inheritance. Most of my assets are to be liquidated, like Kinnetik…"

"Brian, Please. I don't want to hear this."

"Let me finish. But the main part of my estate; my possessions, a large sum of money and of course the loft, will automatically go… to you."

My head snapped up. "What? …How?"

"I've named you as my legal partner in the document, which consequently makes you my beneficiary."

Brian fell silent; his eyes searching mine, waiting for my response. Although he had a tiny amused curl at the corner of his mouth, I saw the nervousness in his eyes, and I wanted to rush into his arms, hurl myself at him, bury my face in his soft hair, draw my nails across his smooth skin, have him fuck me so hard we were both screaming and gasping, the floor slick with our sweat, out minds lost to brutal need but our bodies frantically synchronized in the dance we do best. I licked my dry lips and cleared my throat.

"Brian, I… I don't know what to say."

Then I felt his hand in mine, pulling me foreword in one fluid movement as the other hand moved the computer off his lap. Straddling him, I had to smile; the familiarity of the gesture, the cocky sexuality, was a comfort to me. A bed rock which banished most of the crawling thoughts of Brian's cancer from my mind. I clasped both hands around his neck and felt his arms come up behind my back and hook onto my shoulders as he answered me softly.

"Then don't say anything."

I gazed into his eyes a moment longer and then, feeling the tears building up in my chest and behind my eyes, I relaxed foreword, grasping him to me, sinking into his embrace, feeling his soft chest beneath the sweater, and the gentle bumps of his pecs, decreased by illness, breathing in his familiar smell; the smell of his body and his shampoo, which I used to borrow all the time. I buried my face in his shoulder as he leant back against the sofa, feeling his soft breath against my hair. We stayed like that for a long time, and them I pulled back and managed a smile despite my red eyes. Brian chuckled.

"Now now, Sunshine, don't get your knickers in a twist. It's an open arrangement, it can be changed at any time … if you want it to…"

But I silenced him by leaning down and capturing his mouth with mine. His gorgeous, soft, kissable mouth. The one thing about him which has never changed, no matter how sick he got his mouth was always the same; so familiar to me as I reveled in the taste of him, feeling his small mischievous smile against my lips, and trying to suppress the intense love and sadness and relief and bewilderment and surprise which boiled inside me. Brian hadn't put any ties on me, he hadn't asked me to stay, he hadn't told me he needed me, he had just subtly let me know that he wanted only me, that even if I were in New York I would still be a part of his life and deserved his loft, that no one else would ever take my place. I felt my eyes getting damp again and hugged Brian closer, unable to stop the revelation of what had just happened from bounding around inside my head with an insatiable rhythm that matched the beating of my heart.

***

End of Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13

**613 – Mistletoe (Chapter 13)**

*Late December*

_Sitting under the mistletoe  
One last candle burning low,  
All the sleepy dancers gone,  
Just one candle burning on,  
Shadows lurking everywhere:  
Someone came, and kissed me there._

_- Walter De La Mare_

The Loft

JUSTIN'S POV

Gentle light warmed my eyelids as I drifted into consciousness, the feeling flooding into my limbs. My mind still fuzzy from sleep, I became aware of a shape behind me, spooned cosily around my back against the cool morning air. Brian. A small smile pulled up the corners of my mouth as I felt his arm tucked around my torso, palm resting peacefully against my chest, and sensed the gentle heat of his breath on the back of my neck, the tickle of his soft hair by my shoulder. God, I missed this. My smile spreading, I let out a contented sigh and snuggled further under the covers, cautiously pressing myself against the warm mounds and valleys of his chest. With Christmas just around the corner, winter had truly arrived in Pittsburgh and even the well-insulated loft could not keep out the weather's seasonal chill. I wondered briefly what to get Brian as a gift; buying presents for Brian Kinney had always been difficult. Giving something too trivial and jokey would back up his comments about the meaninglessness of gift giving, yet something too sentimental would put him on the spot and scare him off. Getting the balance right was going to be tricky.

The shrill of the telephone drilled into my thoughts and I sighed. Brian began to stir with the sound so I slipped out from beside him and walked naked to the phone, feeling the gooseflesh starting on my back and arms - for although we had heating in the loft, Brian never liked it on too high and the spacious apartment was frequently cool. I saw him groan and rolled over as the ringing continued and I smiled to myself: he never looked quite so angelic once he'd woken up with his bed-hair. I stooped to pick up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is a Mr. Taylor there" A deep confident voice asked. I shifted the phone clamped it to my ear with my shoulder as I scratched the back of my head.

"Speaking."

The voice changed immediately, was warmed with a glowing familiarity. "Mr. Taylor! It's me, Henry Olsen. From the Manhattan gallery! We've all been rather worried about you! You had to make a terribly sudden return to Pittsburgh."

I glanced over at Brian, who was now awake and gazing absently at the ceiling, one arm bent, shielding his eyes from the light, his smooth chest bare.

"Mr. Olsen… Henry. It's good to hear from you. Sorry I didn't call sooner, I meant to but…"

He cut me off. "Never mind that, lad. I'm phoning to ask when you plan to return to us!"

I took a deep breath and squeezed one eye shut in concentration. It was now or never.

"I _have_ thought about it, Henry, long and hard. Much as your gallery has given me and much as I appreciate the doors open to me in New York… I'm not coming back."

I saw Brian lower the arm shielding his face and look at me, his eyes growing darker and more dangerous by the second. Mr. Olsen spluttered on the other end of the phone.

"What? Are you… sure?"

Brian got up abruptly and strode into the bathroom, sliding the door shut roughly behind him. I sighed inwardly and took advantage of the privacy it afforded me.

"Look, Henry, I did leave very suddenly, and I didn't want to go into why at the time, but the truth is … my partner has cancer. I'm not going to sacrifice being with him."

The silence on the other end of the line conveyed to me a blurry picture of Mr. Olsen's shocked face, jaw slightly slack, small jowls wobbling, bristly chin of stubbles, eyes wide and motionless… Then he spoke.

"Oh Justin." He said. "I'm so sorry." He said. "I understand." He said. And then he chuckled. "I wouldn't advise it as the best move for your career, but then who am I to say? You need to do what you need to do. And there never was any stopping you!"

I thanked him and promised on his insistence that I would not lose touch. When I finally put the phone down I paused for a moment, tilting my head back and sighing out through my teeth. Now to face Brian. Who hated it when he felt I had given something up for him, that I was losing out in some way. How little he knew. I went and sat on the bed, feeling the dark velvet bedspread soft and luxurious under my fingers, biting my lip. Brian came out of the bathroom, dressed in a grey shirt and black pants, and stopped abruptly seeing me in front of him. I held his gaze steadily. After looking at me for a few seconds, he let out the words he had obviously been pent up.

"You should go back. Don't be a stupid little shit and throw it all away."

I crossed my arms and hugged myself as I looked earnestly at him. "I'm staying here."

Brian's eyes left mine as he stared at the floor in an abrupt gesture of frustration. "If it hadn't been for this fucking cancer…"

But I interrupted him. "Don't be so selfish. I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for me, Brian. I thought I could get along with out you, that I could focus on other things. But when this happened, I realized that I DO want it all, that life is too short for me to sacrifice my happiness for the sake of expectation. I can paint in Pittsburgh. This is my home."

***

The Diner

LINDSAY:

Lindsay entered the festive diner, leading little Gus by the hand. The young boy was trussed up head to toe in a brown woollen coat with a blue hat and scarf, which Lindsay began to take off once they sat down in a booth. Debbie spotted them within seconds and hurried over to pinch Gus's cheeks and Lindsay smiled, she felt at peace with the world. Of course she hated the cold weather, but she had a beautiful and intelligent son, Brian seemed to be getting stronger, and the warmth of the diner gave her a glowing sensation in her middle. Smoothing Gus's chestnut hair, which had been ruffled by his woollen hat, she wondered what she would buy Mel for Christmas. Always a believer in tactful and heartfelt gifts, Lindsay knew she wanted this year's present for her wife to be extra special. A necklace perhaps? Or maybe she could go all out, get Brian and Michael to look after the kids, and take Mel on a carefree holiday to the Bahamas. Lindsay chuckled to herself at the daring of the idea, and then Gus was tugging on her sleeve.

"Mom? Mom, can I please have hot fudge sundae? Pleeeaassee?"

His big green eyes were pleading and Lindsay looked at her watch; it was just before lunch. Debbie bustled up with a notepad in hand and a twinkle in her eye.

"Go on honey, let him have one. It's nearly Christmas after all!"

Lindsay laughed and gave in, and Gus jigged up and down with excitement whilst Debbie, grinning, jotted down his order. Checking her watch - Mel was supposed to meet her - Lindsay mentally listed all the chores she had to get done that day: going to the toy store to buy Gus and JR's presents, visiting the supermarket to stock up on stocking fillers, stopping by the hairdressers for a haircut. Emmett's voice made her look up as he came over to her and scooted into the seat next to Gus.

"I have had SUCH a day! You wouldn't even imagine!" He pronounced, unzipping his pink leather jacket and squeezing Gus in greeting. "I saw Drew this morning, on TV, and I had to go and distract myself so I went to the tanning salon. Well, being as …preoccupied as I was how could I be expected to be paying absolute attention? … You would have thought the staff would be so nice as to tell me that I was still wearing my bracelets, but no! Not a word! Now look!"

He pulled back his sleeve indignantly to reveal several white bands of skin, incongruous to the rest of his arm.

Lindsay tried very hard to repress a giggle. "Oh Emmett… I thought that people didn't go to the salon in winter – isn't the whole point that people are naturally paler in December?"

This earned her a disdainful look from Emmett. "Honey, all's fair in beauty and fags."

"God bless John Lyly! …However misquoted he may be." Mel's voice made Lindsay look around. Her wife kissed her hello before handing over JR for Emmett to sit down next to Gus, and lowering herself into the seat next to Lindsay.

"What's this? Mutiny?" She asked amusedly, looking at Gus who was tucking into his treat.

Lindsay grinned at her. "Yes, I'm afraid so, in the form of a hot fudge sundae. …Since that's the no-sugar rule out of the window for today, maybe JR like one too, and you?"

Mel sighed in mock exasperation as she watched the children together, and put her arm round Lindsay's shoulders. Emmett grinned, his disfigured arm forgotten. Lindsay felt a sudden gratitude for her friends and let the smile stay on her face as she smelt the aroma of fresh waffles drifting across from the kitchen, where Debbie was calling out orders by the dozen, and squeezed Mel's hand under the table.

Her wife broke the contented silence, "So, what do you think of Justin staying in Pittsburgh? Who would have thought it? And you were so sure he was going to make it big in New York, Linds."

Lindsay furrowed her brow. "I don't think we can really make judgements about the situation."

"Sure we can! I mean, I think I know why he is staying… I just thought they had ended that saga once and for all, that Brian had finally let go…"

"Mel!" Lindsay gave her partner a warning look. "It's not a 'saga'. You know they love each other." He expression softened. "And I understand Justin's actions. If you were sick I don't think I could leave you."

"I never thought I'd say this" Emmett chipped in. "But I do think they need each other. I saw them once, cuddling. It was cold out and they were waiting for a cab home and Brian had Justin wrapped up in his coat with him, they were so adorable. Lindsay's right. After all, they say home is where the heart is."

Mel shrugged and helped herself to a spoonful of Jenny Rebecca's sundae. Lindsay smiled at Emmett. She thought she understood now, better than she had before, although Mel still seemed slightly deceived. The thing was, Brian Kinney appeared to be, hell, TRIED to be one of the most arrogant, narcissistic, selfish, conceded assholes in Pittsburgh who knew he could fuck anyone into next week because he was the best. But that was not the real Brian. That was only a part of him; the feigned part. The rest of him was terrified he'd be exactly what his mother and father always insinuated he'd be. He'd spent the first fifteen years of his life listening to people fighting, arguing, hating each other and hating him. He'd lived fifteen years in a house with no love, where feelings were repressed and strained and his mother neglected him and his father emotionally and physically abused him, telling him he was worthless and then hitting him to prove it. That's why his pride was so important to him. That's why he appeared to be so superficial. If he had money, and looks, gave the best fuck, and everyone either feared him or envied him, it meant he was something real and not worthless. He had value if everyone else knew he was the best. And Brian had always equated sex with proving himself.

Until he met Justin. And then it became something else; very gradually it became something more.

***

*Afternoon*

Pittsburgh

JOAN KINNEY:

Joan twisted her hands together as she paced in front of the fireplace in her meticulously tidy living room. She didn't know if he would show up. She didn't even know if he had got her message. He may have deleted it, knowing him he probably got rid of it without even listening. Joan stopped by the frigid panes of the window and looked out; it was a cold blustery day, violent eddies of wind whipped the bare trees into a stiff dance, and small clusters of snow were gathered half-heartedly in corners, as if to shelter from the relentless gale. Joan smoothed her hair; she had had many sleepless nights recently, and had spoken to many new people. The friendly bottle on the kitchen counter had lost its appealing glow as she had found herself uncertain, confused and agitated, angry and despairing, calling out to a silent deity for answers to questions she was appalled she was asking. Never in her life had Joan Kinney been uncertain, and she didn't like it one bit. Single-mindedness had an easy finality to it, and Joan had enjoyed to carefree mindset it afforded her. Except when it made her lose everything.

A rap on the door made Joan suck in her breath and clench her hands in surprise. Pursing her lips, she walked through to the hallway and lifted the latch to reveal Brian standing in the entranceway, his hair windswept, his hands shoved into the pockets of his heavy leather coat, the bottoms of his trousers wet from the damp ground. He looked elegant in a grey scarf, and although he was still pale, his eyes were brighter than when Joan had last seen him. Putting a hand on her stomach, smoothing invisible creases in her yellow cardigan, Joan spoke:

"You came."

Brian's expression was hard and his posture nonchalant. "Yeah, don't sound so surprised. You're my mother, it's my familial obligation."

Aware of her lips in a thin line, Joan invited her son in. When he sat down on the edge of the sofa and faced her, an expectant expression on his face, she saw, for just a moment, a child version of Brian. It was the messy hair that did it. His hair always had always succumbed to sections that stood straight up or lay at odd angles. Joan had very early on given up any attempt at keeping it tamed. She thought Brian had grown out of it, but now she realized it was just an expensive haircut and one windstorm away from chaos again. All he lacked now was a sprinkling of tanned freckles and a band-aid covering some latest scrape or scratch. Joan resisted the urge to briskly smooth his hair off his forehead and tell him to go to bed before Jack got home. Jack was dead. And so was the past.

Brian was watching her warily. Thinking back, Joan remembered that even as a child, he had a sad, cynical air. He had always had those large eyes, soulful and riveting, like out of a Margaret Keene painting. He could express volumes without speaking. Joan blinked and shook herself out of her thoughts, turning to her son.

"I suppose you are wondering why I asked you to come here."

Brian's eyebrows raised a fraction in answer. Joan took a deep breath and continued, her voice sharp and strained.

"From the moment they handed you to me in the hospital, you surprised me. Claire was such a homely baby, red and bawling, but you were reserved, like an old man, and perfect in every detail. You hardly ever cried… there were times when I was afraid you had died because you were so quiet…"

"Mom, why are you telling me this?"

Joan looked up at Brian's impatient expression and ploughed determinedly on.

"You were right, Jack didn't want me to have you. He was furious when I refused to have an abortion. He wanted to stay free and unbound for as long as possible."

Brian tipped his head back, squinting at the beige ceiling, and Joan poured herself a drink from the bottle on the coffee-table - feeling a worming anger at herself for creating this situation, for giving in to her doubts - before continuing:

"But when you were old enough to play sports, he took an interest in you. You were a natural athlete, something he envied. But I never went to your games because Jack would be there, yelling at you in front of everyone. He always put you down… even when you won. If I protested, he hit me. Even worse, he would hit you."

Brian stood up abruptly and walked to the window, folding his arms defensively across his chest. Joan looked at his broad, leather-clad back and felt her heart pounding from what? Fear? Remembering Jack's cold expression, Joan spat out the next few sentences as if forced to do so by something unseen..

"He said I spoiled you, because I protected you from him. He said I would… I would make you a queer."

Brian let out a snort of cold laughter from where he stood. Joan heard it and folded her hands on her primly collected lap, knees tucked in, emotions bottled. After a second, Brian turned around, his eyes bitterly amused.

"You didn't make me queer, Mom. It wasn't anything you… or Jack, did. It wasn't even being fondled by your faggot priest brother. If you feel guilt over that, forget it."

"Then what, Brian? It wasn't like you couldn't have a girlfriend. All the girls adored you."

Brian nodded slightly and turned back to the window, pushing the lace curtain open a little further. Joan felt she couldn't turn back, and continued in an emotionless voice.

"When did it happen?"

This time Brian looked her in the eye. "It didn't 'happen', Mom. It always was. I tried it with girls. I wanted to be 'normal'. But that's not 'normal' for me. It felt wrong. Being with men felt right."

"I'm not going to pretend I understand, Brian. I do find it difficult that you are ...different."

"For me, it isn't 'different'. It's the only way."

"What about AIDS?"

"What about it? I'm negative. I get tested."

"But you are promiscuous."

"Who told you that?"

"Does it matter?"

Brian dipped his head with a snort and a disbelieving smile, before striding to the fireplace and tapping the ash out of his cigarette in the ashtray there, a relic from the days of Jack Kinney, no longer used but still, strangely enough, kept by Joan. She saw the chestnut sheen of his hair, and wondered yet again why he had been spared, why he had lived through cancer yet again. Just another discord in the growing incongruity of her God. Slowly, hesitantly, she rose from her perch on the chair, and came to stand behind her son. Putting her hand on his shoulder, only just able to reach, she felt the strong muscles beneath the leather jacket and realized with a jolt that this was the first time she had touched him in… she couldn't even remember how long. Brian showed no sign of having felt her, but he obliged when she increased the pressure to get him to turn around. One he was looking at her, Joan removed her hand as if touching hot coals, and cast her eyes away.

"I will pray for you, Brian."

She couldn't see, but she was sure she sensed his expression.

"You do that, Mom, if that makes you feel better. But I'll still be gay after your prayers."

Joan did not move, but neither did she raise her eyes to meet her son's. "Then I'll pray for my own understanding."

***

Corner of Tremont and Fuller

BRIAN:

Brian pulled up his corvette alongside the curb, cutting the engine and swinging the door open, immediately hit with a cold blast of wintry air. About to step out of his car, he paused, having caught sight of Justin waiting by the entrance to their apartment building. Justin must have seen him too, because a smile pulled up the corners of him mouth and he walked towards where Brian was parked, reaching the car and resting his arm on the roof while he leaned down to grin at Brian.

"Hey."

Brian pulled his lips into his mouth to suppress a smile. "Hey yourself."

"Would you mind coming with me to see something? I need ask your opinion."

"You mean I don't even get a 5 minute break to rest my poor arthritic knees?"

Justin stuck out his tongue. "Nope."

Minutes later they were in Justin's car speeding down the freeway. Brian leant back in his seat and watched the buildings flashing past in the freezing grey of the afternoon.

"So, did you have a nice day, dear?" Justin's eyes were fixed on the road but were lit with mischievous fire.

Brian glanced at him briefly, taking in the beautiful manly profile and the flawless pale skin before he drew in a breath and answered:

"I saw my Mom."

"Your Mom? What did she want?"

"I'm not quite sure."

At that moment, Justin swung the wheel and they pulled up to a big warehouse-type building in the centre of Pittsburg. Brian followed him out of the car, up the steps and through the door, where they were greeted with a concrete expanse of a room, empty and freezing cold. Justin held out his arms and twirled happily.

"Well, what do you think?"

Brian craned his neck back to take in the cavernous ceiling. "About what?"

"This! As my studio. I'm renting it. I figured I need to get working seriously again, and I can't paint in the loft… so when this place came on the market I phoned in and sealed the deal. What do you think?" His cheeks were glowing, and his breath came in silver puffs in the shadowy space.

Brian gave him a sardonic look. "It's fucking freezing."

Justin tucked his hands into he sleeves of his parker and let out a defeated laugh. "Yeah, it is. But the contractor promised he would sort it out. It needs a bit of work, but spatially it's just what I need… and it's got great light!"

Brian bit his lip for a moment, gazing at his partner, before walking forward and wrapping his coat around the younger man, pulling him close and chuckling into his ear.

"You artists and your fucking light."

***

*Next day*

Kinnetik

TED:

Ted Schmidt bent over a pile of paper, shuffling through the sheets with an exasperated expression. After a minute, he bent down and pulled out a big drawer from the filing cabinet beside him, it made a clunking, rolling noise. From this drawer he extracted a folder from which he pulled yet more sheets, pouring over them for a second before throwing his hands up in exasperation and picking up the phone. A few muttered exchanges later, he hung up with a determined expression, and, his eyes fixed on the sheet he took up in his other hand, dialed a different number.

"Hello? Bri? It's Ted."

This seemed to elicit a lengthy teasing response, which Ted nodded tolerantly through before interrupting, absently tapping the sheet against the surface of his desk with a sound like a dog scratching itself.

"Brian, look… I just called about… Yes, we do. Seriously. I don't now how long you plan to continue this… as your accountant I advise… no of course it's not earning money! In fact it's probably losing it!"

Ted leaned back in his chair, putting down the sheet of paper on top of the others and tapping two keys on his computer to wake it up. When the screen was illuminated, Ted clicked few times and then shifted forward and scanned closely.

"Well… no. But I also don't think it would benefit you… this can't go on indefinitely. … Alright, I'll do what I can. It just seems…. Okay Brian. Bye now."

With that, Ted put down the phone and shuffled the papers on his desk, muttering to himself, as was his habit, before storing them all away and rolling the clunking drawer shut.

***

The Loft

JUSTIN'S POV:

*Christmas Eve*

As I cleaned up the kitchen, I thought of dinner at Debbie tomorrow. My mum had said she would be bringing Molly, and I was looking forward to the festivities I had missed the year before.

But right now, I wanted to be with Brian. Just Brian. I had managed to persuade him not to go to work, it being Christmas Eve and all, and we had driven out of Pittsburgh to go for a walk in the crisp grass of the surrounding countryside. Brian still did not have all his strength yet, so we had just walked, arm in arm, at a leisurely pace, not saying much, but enjoying each other's presence and the fresh clean of the winter air. But now we were home and it was evening.

I felt the hairs in on the back of my neck raise in expectation as a thrill shot through me. I felt like I was drifting, divorced form reality, on an ethereal plane where the only truth was the heightened sensation of my body, the quiet assurance, the bubbling determination. I rinsed the sponge out in the warm water of the tap and folded the dishcloth over the rail before walking to the bedroom.

Brian was waiting for me on the bed when I came up the steps, his long legs crossed in front of him, a lazy swirl of smoke curling elegantly from the joint held loosely between his fingers. Smiling, I came to stand in front of him, seeing the way the light from behind him made him into a dark silhouette. Brian held out the spliff to me and sitting down next to him, I took a puff before putting it out in the ashtray on the floor and turning to look into his eyes. I felt a sudden surge of anticipation, was reminded how much I loved this man, loved everything about him. Brian was unusually silent, as if he were apprehensive, so I took charge. Very slowly, talking my time, I leaned in and pressed my lips to his.

After a second I felt him respond. He took my face in his hands with almost unbearable tenderness and we kissed gently but deeply, his fingers running through my hair. I caressed the back of his neck and the side of his face as he sucked on my bottom lip, running his tongue along the inside, sending tingles straight to my groin. Finally, when the flutter in my chest threatened to stop my heart, I pulled back. Brian took the opportunity to ease my shirt over my head and cast it aside. Everything was painfully slow and tentative. His hands promptly returned to my torso, gliding across the surface, touching in just the right places to send my head rolling back, my neck calling out in invitation to which he responded by running his tongue from my clavicle up to my ear.

Undressing each other became an extended process, both of us paying attention to each new area of skin as it was uncovered. Together on the bed, our hands, lips, tongues, teeth exploring freely, rediscovering every inch of each other. Ardent but unhurried. And then I pushed him over onto his back, kissing him tenderly, sucking on his tongue, winding my fingers in his hair and pushing my hips against his. When I pulled back a little and propped myself up on my elbow, his hazel eyes followed me, his lips slightly parted, and I held his gaze for a second before I began to lick and suck the skin of his shoulder, working my way down his chest, feeling the pliant muscles beneath my hands and the heat of his skin against my lips. We had made out like this since I came back, incredible, mind-blowing kissing sessions that usually resulted with me coming, but this time I knew it was more, I was focused as I continued down his body, taking the lead, pulling us both back into the magic we had forsaken for too long.

When I reached his navel Brian let out a moan and arched up against me, his hands finding their way into my hair. I brushed my nose against the faint trail of hair that led down from his stomach to his pubes and felt with a thrill his cock hard beneath my chest. My heart began to pound and I ran my hand up his side, feeling the bumps of his ribs beneath my palm. And then I dropped my head into his lap and finally got what I'd wanted since we'd walked in the door, the taste and smell and feel of Brian in my mouth.

I tongued the vein running up his cock, and then took just the head between my lips, lightly, before licking him up and down, and he let out the most amazing breathy gasp. Brian makes the best sounds. I think about his voice more than anything when I'm jerking off. I kissed his thighs, the place where his leg meets his hip, his balls. Very deliberately, I caressed them one at a time, first the prosthetic, then the genuine, drawing them into my mouth, my tongue dancing on the soft skin. His eyes were on me, an unfathomable expression darkening them, but then I closed my lips on his shaft and took him as deep into my throat as I could, swallowing him, my hands slipping under his ass and lifting him up to my face, and his eyes closed and his back arched up. He had one hand in my hair, twisting and stoking it, and the other back on the wall, and he was writhing under me, covered in sweat. The smell of him was so hot and so familiar, I'd missed it so much, having him in my mouth whenever I wanted him there. Just this, and this, and this. This for all eternity, the raging love that threatened to consume me as surely as the shattering lust that was bursting from my groin.

I knew he was close and moved up his body again, causing him to open his eyes. When I was directly above him, I leant over and grabbed a condom from the drawer and then rolled off onto my back, pulling him on top of me. Whilst he held himself still, arms either side of my head, I reached down and slipped it onto him, never breaking eye contact. I could perform that in my sleep, so many times had I done it. And then I put my hands either side of his face and pulled him down into a kiss, raising my head up to meet his half way, desperate to feel the fiery connection once again. Wrapping my legs around his back, I beckoned him into me, nudging inside the tightness, unused to this after so long. And oh God, nothing compares to that feeling. The feel of Brian in me, and around me, everywhere, pervading my senses, taking over everything, until I can feel nothing else. He was panting, his eyes screwed shut against the pleasure, and I reached down and grasped his ass, urging him forward.

"Move, Bri."

Very slowly he angled his hips, and pulled out a fraction. Jesus, I was so hard, I knew I wasn't going to last long. My cock was hot and pulsing on my stomach, leaving a train of wetness below my navel. I felt my body and mind go into a higher place, as Brian wrapped me in his arms, his taut stomach rubbing against my dick, and started to thrust, slowly, gently, both of us so close it was almost unbearable. Dropping his forehead to my shoulder, he groaned and I knotted my fingers in his hair and gasped for air, feeling the cool of sweat on my skin, momentarily taking my mind off the suffocating pleasure which was growing in my core. I arched upwards into his arms as he hit something wonderful inside of me and then he was kissing me again, his mouth tasting amazing and just like him, lips warm and soft, still unbearably slow, and meaningful. When I felt my orgasm erupting, overpowering me, more powerful than I could remember in along time, I cried out and clutched at him, feeling him come inside me and squeezing my eyes shut as my body spiraled out of control.

Afterwards, when we had both come back down to earth and were lain together in silence, him still half on me, his head on my chest, his arm tucked around me and my hand in his hair, he craned his neck to glance up at me, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Merry Christmas, Sunshine."

***

~ End of Chapter 13 ~


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